The 13th Hour
by jlewi89
Summary: * A story of tragedy, witty humor, and mysterious events. * Set 12 years after the anguished loss of Wilson, House is giving life his all; albeit while suffering from intermittent pain. A new patient who claims to possess psychic abilities sends House down a roller coaster of a puzzle, leading to unexpected results and forgotten promises. PPTH alumni included, as well as new faces.
1. Everybody Lies

_"To have the beginning of a great story, you need to have a character you're completely and utterly obsessed with. Without obsession, to the point of a maddening addiction, there's no point to continue."_

-Jennifer Salaiz

* * *

**G**regory House glanced around the waiting room on the fifth floor of the multi-office rental building, consciously studying the patients around him. Sitting back in the cheap, uncomfortable plastic chair with his 'Abraham Lincoln vs. T-Rex' T-Shirt on, he didn't fit the description for former and renown Diagnostics Department Head of Princeton Plainsboro at all. He glanced at his Casio watch, which looked as old and inexpensive as the seat he was sitting in. 2:30. Fifteen minutes past the appointment time.

The baby to his left began to cry as the mother tried to shush her back to sleep. House glanced over, lightly bracing the back of his head against the brick wall behind him, rolling his eyes behind the lids. He squinted one shut and peered dubiously out the other, noticing the mother's small breast size.

"Guess you could only fit half a happy meal in there? Do yourself a favor and leave her home next time. Bringing a whiny miniature human being in a room full of detoxing addicts is kind of moronic."

The mother rocked her baby faster, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, she hasn't had her nap today, and right now I can't afford-"

"Ooh yeah, that's real sympathetic, except I wasn't going to recommend a baby sitter. I was actually going to recommend leaving her home and opening a window, so then you and Eric Clapton would have two things in common, besides just being addicts."

The mother stared in disbelief at the stranger's comments. House opened his eyes and mouth wide, mocking her, continuing this expression until she shook her head and moved to the opposite side of the room. A younger man sitting on the other side with an open magazine in his hands defended her.

"Why don't you lay off her? Being a single mom can't be easy. Just 'cus you're a cripple doesn't give you the right to be an ass."

House took a short breath, bending over to rest his forehead against his cane, which he held in front of him. He responded without looking at either one of them in the face.

"She has designer heels on, I'd wager 200$ from Nordstrom, that have less than one scuff mark… I don't eat a lot of rice but I'd consider that simple math. By the way she's been holding and staring at her child I'd guess she has New Mother Anxiety, which means she'll be an awful parent, and her child will be crying like this all the way to 5th grade when mommy drops her off."

The mother was on the verge of tears, trying her best to ignore the fact that everyone was now staring at her heels. She turned to House in defense.

"Do you know how many forms of abuse happen every year from mothers who just pass off their children to people they barely even know!?"

House mimicked her expression of shock and angst while again verbally choke-slamming her.

"Do you know how many idiotic mothers bring an equally idiotic fetus into this world and idiotically raise them to be... idiotic?"

The mother realized it would be a waste to try to continue this conversation and chose to stay silent. She turned the other cheek and continued to rock her baby. This frustrated the young man, who was about to retort, but was cut short by House's continued lecture.

"And you're worse than an idiot. You're a desperate junkie. Do you really think a Suboxone doctor is going to give you bupe if you piss dirty with benzos?"

The young man let out a breath and a fake smirk, but everyone in the room noticed his flush of embarrassment. He was suddenly the target of attention in the room.

"I don't know what you're talking about bro, I-"

"You've been sitting there reading a Life & Garden magazine, stuck on the same Anne Hollowell article for the last twenty minutes. Fortunately I've been nudging your foot with my cane every four minutes, waking you out your nod and saving me from seeing your disgusting drool slide out the side of your face. Normally I'd wager another narcotic, but unlike my beautiful, baby blue pinpoint eyes which are saying 'Opiates', your big brown fecal colored eyes are shouting Xanax. Broseph."

There was a moment of silence in the room, and House halfway smirked at his confirmation, still staring at the terrified youth. He sat back in his chair again, twirling his cane in the now empty space to his right.

"I can sell you my pee if you want, but I gotta warn ya, baby blue pinpoints are in high demand right now-"

The young man had quickly gotten up and took off. He nearly bumped into the doctor's assistant who was approaching the waiting room doorway.

The assistant was an older woman slightly on the heavy side. She held a clipboard in her hand and her bagged eyes were staring at House behind her maroon colored glasses. House quickly skimmed her over, noticing every detail of her appearance.

"Gregory House, Dr. Daniels is ready to see you."

House stood up to his feet, nodding towards the young mother as he followed the assistant out the room. The baby was crying loudly.

"See you next week."

The rented out section of the small Addiction Maintenance & Therapy office was crowded. It was one of many in the central New Jersey area, though House had chosen this one for a specific reason. The middle room was hardly big enough for the assistant's desk who, by the many pictures in the room of them together, was obviously the doctor's wife.

House had done his homework. He had learned much about the doctor's history, but the sight of his practice revealed even more. Dr. Daniels wasn't big on cleanliness, lived happily on the bottom of the Psychiatric food chain, and had numerous old-school movie posters hanging in the hallway that led to his office, expressing his fanboyism for cinema. A pleasant thought of a memory long past consumed House's brain as it reminded him of his old friend Wilson, who had passed away twelve years ago while both of them were in Florida. His thoughts lingered to the many bike rides and bar scenes they experienced together in the last month of the illness. Walking through the main office door the memories were quickly interrupted as Dr. Daniels shifted his hand out to greet him. The assistant closed the door behind them, leaving House and the doctor alone in solitude.

The first thing House's eyes met was the obnoxious, bright orange tie the psychiatrist wore, with a big smiley face sun in the background smiling down at little dancing, mooing cows playing instruments. It reminded him of some dairy commercial on television gone wrong. He shifted his way past the extended hand and sat down in the chair opposite from the couch, a cold demeanor of piercing steel blue eyes underneath heavily bent eyebrows glaring out. He was a picture perfect image of melancholy.

"Let's get this over with, I'm missing the new season of Mob Wives."

Dr. Daniels nodded and sat down in the opposite couch, grabbing his reading glasses and the red patient folder. He began flipping through the first pages.

"Very well, your analysis showed an enormous amount of Oxycodone use, which was expected. I have here in my records that after many years of a Vicodin addiction, you switched to full Roxicodone because of a liver failure, brought about by the over dosage of acetaminophin..."

"Yeah, unfortunately my insurance wouldn't cover heroin use."

The doctor glared at him suspiciously over his glasses, refusing to play bait over the immature humor. House broke the silence.

"Speaking of insurance, this is what they're paying you for? To tell me things I already know? And I thought neurologists had it easy."

Dr. Daniels set the file down on the coffee table. Sarcasm and negative attitudes were common place when treating patients who suffered from addiction, especially those who were undergoing a painful detox. He removed his reading glasses and directed the conversation towards a treatment plan.

"I can prescribe you Suboxone, a leading Bupremorphine maintenance drug, though we will need to keep you at our designated Rehabilitation Facility by St. Peter's Hospital. After we get you through a night of detox, we start with a low dose and work our way from there. It will take a few weeks to get adjusted. Do you have someone you can call that will transport you to our facility?"

"You're having an affair. Actually, affairs. Meaning multiple."

The doctor stopped for a moment, a minor expression of surprise on his face.

House smiled, pointing the handle of his cane in the direction of the assistant's office.

"It's kind of obvious. Your wife has lost sleep over the nights you show up late, or don't show up at all, and she's been gaining weight compared to her recent Facebook pictures. At least ten pounds, but by the look of that ridiculous cow tie your probably into that. Does she know how to play an instrument too?"

The doctor looked stunned, his mouth slightly open, a raging anger building up in his face.

"Hey it's cool, I get it, shade in the summer and warmth in the winter, am I right?"

House continued his mocking by raising his hand for a fist pound. Dr. Daniels wrapped his fist around his glasses, his knuckles turning slightly pale.

"You son of a-"

"She has a Nicorette pack on her desk, but it hasn't been opened and she's not chewing any. I can only deduce it's there just in case one of her panic attacks start, probably from constant thought of you and your American Beauty blonde."

The doctor was about to explode, his cheeks and ears filling with a tinted red. The sound of cracking plastic could be heard as his fist shook tightly, the broken edges of his glasses cutting into his hand. House was just getting started.

"That, and I added your daughter on Facebook as well. Funny how quickly people consider strangers friends these days, though it's more effective when you're using a profile picture of a male American Eagle model. Your daughter added me within ten minutes of my request. Guess daddy's psychological-profiling knowledge didn't do much for the family."

Dr. Daniels felt his blood pressure continue to rise. He proceeded with his visage of disbelief, refusing to acknowledge whether House was speaking fact or fiction. Internally he knew defeat was a phone call away, a simple con to butter up the many underage girls he had been sleeping with to bring the truth to light. They were teenagers, after all.

"Turns out you and your daughter share some common chickadees on your friends list. I checked them out, mad props on little Julie! Didn't know fifteen year olds grew breasts that big. After a few minutes of instant messaging she told me about her exciting sleep over at the Daniels house last Friday. I think the wording was, 'OMG, he was so old and creepy, but his convertible is just too awesome!', or something like that. You know what, I forgot I printed it out! Give me a minute, it's in my back pocket. I got a few copies if you'd like some for your friends."

After a moment of silence, he let go of his broken glasses, letting them hit the carpet below. He braced his other arm on his knee and collapsed his face into his hand. He could feel his body shaking with anger, but there wasn't much to be done. He pressed his fingers against the inner points of his eyes, taking deep breaths to contain himself. The anger had subsided, and the inevitable fear of his wife leaving with half his income began to overwhelm him. Tears began to fall.

"You can't possibly be trying to black mail me… I've been in practice for over fifteen years… I'm a husband and a father!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. I'd do it to another addiction specialist but you're the only one cheating on their wife right now. And sleeping with teenagers. And doing it with internet-media coverage that would make CNN blush. Honestly, I think you're an idiot, and know close to nothing but the basics of what addiction was ten years ago. I'll give you a tip…"

House leaned over and whispered.

"Google dextromethorphan. Oh, and your daughter's been smoking meth, every night around ten o'clock to be sure. You can smell it from the neighbor's yard."

Daniels' eyes widened at the specific details of his home life which House bantered out like some bar joke.

"You were at my house?"

House shrugged his shoulders with a look of childish innocence.

"I get kind of carried away when researching people I'm about to black mail. Lots of free time since I lost my medical license."

He reached over and grabbed the doctor's prescription pad on the side table, throwing it his direction. Dr. Daniels caught the pad sloppily, and waited while House gave his orders.

"Start me on a three month supply of three strips a day. I'd like to see as little of you as possible during my 'maintenance treatment.' My probation officer requires that I see you at least every month, so she'll be calling you. Just do the usual and tell her what a sweetheart I am. Oh, and that you wished you had my hair."

Dr. Daniels had begun writing down the Rx, but stopped for a moment and glared up at House.

"For being hailed as one of the most brilliant doctors in his time, you sure are an ass. It's no wonder you lied about your death at one point… I'm sure there were plenty of ex-husbands who wanted to kill you."

House smiled softly. He wasn't filled with anger or bitterness towards the doctor. In his mind he was simply using his own methods to receive a better treatment. Dr. Daniels ripped the prescription angrily off the pad and handed it over. House grabbed his cane and the small blue sheet, turning to him once more before walking out.

"Everybody lies."


	2. A Reason To Keep Fighting

_"I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom."_

-Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

**H**ouse walked into his small apartment, setting his cane on the kitchen door handle and limping towards the fridge. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of Speyside, twisting open the top and pouring the single-malt scotch into a dirty glass by the sink. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The place was a mess. Dirty dishes piled up, the trash bin was overflowing.

He pondered quietly, thinking about a time when he married an illegal immigrant just to have a full time house maid. He wondered where Dominika was, what she was doing. It was a pointless thought. Those days were over. He was getting old, the pain was getting worse. The puzzles were becoming scarce and he was alone. Of course, that never bothered him before, but the lack of puzzles, prostitutes and yes, even people, was leading to a mild grade depression.

House limped slowly, with glass in hand, into his living room. His old jazz organ that Wilson had bought him long ago was still in the corner. In the other was one half of his desk from the Dx Department at Princeton Plainsboro. He walked over to it and set his glass down. After taking a moment to go through his collection of CDs, he put in an old Buddy Guy album and sat behind the glass desk.

As Buddy Guy hollered in his bluesy yell over the speaker and played away on his polka dotted guitar, House reached beside him and picked up the old over-sized red and gray tennis ball that had accompanied him from case to case when he was head of diagnostics. He smiled, tossing it up and down, thinking about his prior cases as Princeton Plainsboro. He couldn't remember the names, or even what the patients looked like.

The puzzle was the only thing that mattered.

The case that looked so similar to smallpox and nearly cost him his life. The case with an underlying genetic condition that was overlooked because both patients were married. The man who held the hospital at gun point because he was so desperate to find a cure. The death row inmate. The six year old who had the same exact symptoms as Esther, a patient he had lost twelve years before the case who was one diagnosis away from being solved.

And, in some ways, the crew. His crew. The black car thief who wanted desperately not to become House himself. The overly moral one, who weighed every decision with right and wrong. The Australian playboy turned head diagnostician, and then turned prisoner for the murder of an African dictator years prior. The bite-sized jew who practiced office infidelity until the birth of his two children. The genius, all-too-honest intern. The prison infirmary nurse. The little Asian one.

And Thirteen.

Something about the past.

Something about a promise.

Pain.

Leg pain.

House clutched at the missing muscle in his leg as the sudden onset of pain shot through his body like electricity. His torso was in pain as well from the transplant operation, though the stitches had dissolved by now and it was nothing compared to his infarction. He set the ball down and drank the rest of the glass' contents, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a Bupremorphine strip. His hands were shaking. He opened the strip and pulled out the orange film, the substitute for his long endured friend the Oxycodone. He pondered for a moment how he could get his hands on the good stuff again, even if the Vicodin tore threw his newly placed liver. He felt temptation rise within him, the overwhelming urge to pull out his cellphone and check previous dealers he once contacted because of the pharmacy ban for all non-synthetic opiates that had been placed on his name.

He thought about the rush of euphoria, every Mu receptor being saturated with dopamine that would only come only from those little blue pills.

House pulled out his cell phone and threw it against the wall, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces. He forced himself to place the film under his tongue and forget about it. Not only did the Suboxone contain Bupremorphine which would counteract his withdrawals and somewhat block the pain, but the combined Naloxone would keep him from being able to feel any standard opiate for at least the next 24 hours.

He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head back, tasting the disgusting yet tolerable taste seep down his throat.

And then the panic began, thoughts racing through his head, the life of an addict.

House's eyes glanced up to the top of his bookshelf, where he kept a syringe filled with morphine when the pain became too much. It was conceived as an end of the road motive, used only for breakthrough pain, and had not been touched for over two years.

He had almost forgotten about it.

He had a little bit of time. He could take a last hit before the Naloxone reached his receptors and blocked any future use of pure opiate joy for the day.

Getting up slowly, still contemplating his motives but knowing full well that he would succumb to his ways, he took a deep breath and began limping towards the bookshelf.

Thoughts started passing like five o'clock traffic through his head, battling for a way of willpower to his actions.

_Don't. See if the Bupe will do anything for the pain first. At least give the maintenance a try._

_Doesn't matter. It won't take the edge off like the non synthetic will. You know this._

_You're getting old, how long do you think you can keep doing this to yourself?_

_And you promised your bestfriend before he died._

_You promised Wilson._

House stopped as he approached the bookshelf. With no puzzle, no human interaction, how could anyone expect him to go through this alone? It was torture. He shook his head in disgust with himself and grabbed the stepladder.

And then there was a knock at the door.

House hesitated for a moment. It could be the obnoxious landlord, a dictator of his building dwellers, coming like a loan shark for a shakedown with his vocal abuse of how long the rent has been over-due.

Couldn't be. His knock was more forceful than the one outside his apartment presently, and he also shouted through the woodwork because he knew House rarely opened the door for anyone.

"You've reached the life decoy of Gregory House. Go away."

He reached out and grabbed the handle of the stepladder, pulling it towards him.

Another knock, and then a voice on the other side. A female voice.

"House... please open up. Foreman sent me down to talk to you. We've got a case..."

House felt his teeth grind against each other, taking another look at the magical box that could take him out of his world of pain for at least a few hours. He felt an overwhelming urge to ignore his visitor, even though it was the first potential case and visiting associate he had in over a year.

He justified the decision in his mind. If the case wasn't interesting, he could rush her out and go for the morphine. He had plenty of time. Might as well check out the case.

His white knuckle grip released the step ladder handle, and House grabbed his cane and let out a sigh of frustration before unlocking the door.

Dr. Adams heard the chain unhinge from the opposite side, and then watched the door creak open about four inches. The sight of what she saw gave her a whispered gasp under her breath.

House was a mess. He was pale, his eyes still a yellow, glassy hue from the liver transplant. He smelt like he hadn't bathed in a week, and his beard had fully grown in. His hair was longer, though she could tell he was losing most of it. The worst part of all was the look in his eyes. Behind the bags of sleepless nights and physical pain, she saw loneliness. A loss of hope. A missing glow that was eternally lit when he was head of Diagnostics.

"House..."

House immediately read her reactions, and noticed the red patient folder hanging in her hand. His first reaction was to grab it without hesitation, but he suddenly felt intimidated. There was a fear that his diagnostics skills had gotten worse over time, or be ineffective because of the lack of pills.

Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to lock himself in for the next few hours.

"I'm fine. Just started a new medication. Super model beauty is a common side effect."

He was out of breath. He looked as if he was clinging to his last bit of self-control, tired of wrestling with himself every thirty minutes to whether give in to the addict or live a life of pain.

She reached her hand in to press the door open more. House released his grip and allowed her to do so.

The place was a mess. Multiple glass bottles of scotch could be found lying everywhere. Empty pizza boxes and other trash sat on the piano. Papers, laundry and guitars were thrown carelessly around the apartment.

"When was the last time you had anyone over..." Her voice was quiet and subjective, eyes still searching the place to find any hint of drug use still going on, one of the main objectives that Foreman had given her before she left the hospital.

House nonchalantly closed the door behind her. He made one last glance at the morphine box before realizing it was almost too late. The medication had started taking effect in his body.

"Fortunately prostitutes don't weigh their self-serving values on whether or not you have a clean joint."

He limped over to the desk, taking a seat behind it and staring at her in his studious, contemplative way.

She was still beautiful. Her face had become less childlike, blossomed into an ambitious, though higher-standard-than-usual display that would easily intimidate the normal guy looking for a serious relationship. House spotted the tan line of a wedding band around her left ring finger.

"You were always the desperate one, going all out to find what you want. Wouldn't think you'd take up online dating though."

Dr. Adams looked surprised, turning her attention from the pigsty back to House. She saw he was clutching his leg.

"Did you hack into my account?"

House shook his head.

"No need. Your face tells all. And the tan line where your ring used to be."

She clutched her finger with her other hand, looking down.

"We were only married six months, he was-"

"Is he the patient?"

"No-"

House slammed his cane against the desk, interrupting her mid-sentence.

"Don't care."

Her expression went from deep and intuitive to annoyance. She glared at House for a moment, but the mere sight of his appearance brought about more sympathy than anger. She said nothing, and he obviously took it as it was still his turn to talk.

"What's going on with the patient?"

"He's a young guy, twenty-four, popular entertainer from New-"

House slammed his cane against the desk, loud enough to make Adams jump back a bit.

"Symptoms!"

Dr. Adams was done tip toeing. She reached out and grabbed the end of the cane with both hands, the red patient folder dropping from her hand and hitting the floor. They both wrestled over it for a bit, but having the handle gave Adams the advantage. She pried it from his grip, tossing it to the side and slamming both hands on top of the desk. She hunched over and glared at House directly in his eyes, his immature ways of communication failing to impress her.

"Foreman and I are the last of your Dx team that still give half a damn about you! You'd think with him saving your life and risking his career to get you on the transplant list you would at least try to not be such an over obnoxious ass! Just because you are in pain does NOT give you the right to speak to me like your intern!"

They stared at each other for a moment. For the first time since she stepped in the room, House was really listening to her. She took a deep breath.

"I'm not the same kid you picked up while dropping the soap in prison, although I am grateful that you did. I wouldn't be head of Dx now if you didn't. But I refuse to kiss your ass anymore."

House stared back at her for a moment, studying her emotional display as if he had planned it all along. He slowly stood up, limping to the front of the desk and bending down to retrieve the file. She turned and picked up his cane, clutching it in her hand as House skimmed through the patient folder.

At seeing the name his head snapped up from reading, glaring at her with piercing, blue eyes.

"Why didn't you just say it was Linus Hightower? This guy's New Jersey's top rated psychic; he makes telepathy and talking to dead people actually kind of cool. Or maybe it's just the hippy hair and leather pants. You would have won me over by just saying his name."

She glared back, not saying a word. House mocked her once more in a Mr. Miyagi dialect before continuing through the file.

"You still much have to learn, young grasshopper."

Adams was surprised how much she had forgotten what working with House was like, but beneath his cold, immature exterior she could see the brain was calculating differentials. She crossed her arms and smiled. House began the differential process.

"Says our mind reader suffered paralysis and severe pain in his right leg during a show in Trenton. Did it happen while he was instant messaging the dead?"

"No. He was backstage preparing for a pre-concert special but never made it to the stage. We searched the area for environmental toxins on the day he was admitted... and before you ask, his tox screens were negative. He was addicted to cocaine but gave it up four years ago. Apparently his girlfriend inspired him to clean up and pursue his gifts more seriously."

"That's how it always starts. Then you find yourself crashing your vehicle through their dining room."

House continued looking at the file, but it was evident from the blank look in his eyes he was already analyzing a theory and playing it over in his head.

"Tox screen was negative for the standard 18 panel test. Does the mind reading mutant pop anything at all?"

"He says the only thing he takes are B12 Vitamins and caffeine pills, but we ruled out vitamin deficiency. What about disk herniation?"

"That'd make sense... except the pain would be somewhere else, not just his leg. Don't be an idiot. If you didn't think I'm capable you wouldn't have come."

She couldn't help but to smile a bit. Disk herniation was a dud, a simple Dx test just to see if House was still on his game.

"Could be a blood clot."

"Angio was totally clean, his bloodwork-"

"Was the patient in pain?"

She stopped for a moment, considering what idea he may be thinking of.

"Yes... he graded it at 7 this morning..."

"Muscle biopsy?"

Dr. Adams had begun pacing the room. House grabbed his trusted red and grey tennis ball with his free hand, bouncing it off the glass desk in front of him while glancing down at the file.

"It was clean. No neurogenic or myopathic abnormalities. Also negative for trichinosis, no toxoplasmosis or polyarteritis nodosa."

"Sedimentation rate?"

"Normal, no inflammation, no immunologic response."

House smirked, catching the ball in his hand and looking up at Adams.

"You say normal, I say, well... whats a good euphemism for abnormal?"

"I don't understand, his sed rate was 15... How is that not-"

He walked closer to her, handing her the file and grabbing his cane from her.

"15 is normal for us. This guy's not normal. He's got mental instability, a haircut from the seventies and a fan base full of middle aged single moms who still play with ouija boards. He's practically a non-paraplegic Charles Xavier who looks and lives like a rock star. Which is good, because I'm sure it's hard to convince women to sleep with you when your in a wheel chair."

Adams looked confused. House sighed in frustration.

"Seriously? Professor Xavier? From the X-Men? They make at least ten comic book movies a year, how could you not know this information?"

Adams was trying to decide whether she should take House serious. The idea was a ridiculous one.

"So because he claims to be a psychic, his body is different from any other human being?"

"He's an idiot con-artist who researches people and lies about it for a living. But his standard temperature is 96.2, not the standard 98.6 like us. Apply the same logic to sed rate."

"So if 15 is high for the patient, then the cause is inflammation..."

House opened the door, gesturing to Adams that Dx was over.

"Go with cancer. Tell Foreman to throw me a welcome back party. Lots of midgets, porn and booze. Not to be confused with midget-porn and booze. And tell our sick psychic to say hi to Wilson for me. I'll come by in an hour."

She smiled. Going through differentials with House again brought a feeling of nostalgia. She remembered her days working for him, immediately running out to do a test, tox screen, or break-in. She stopped before crossing the threshold, turning back to him.

"How did you know about the online dating?"

House turned back to her, cane in hand. For a moment, she saw him as his old self. Mangled, miserable, but calculatingly precise.

"You've been divorced for two months and turning 40 soon. Of course you've got an online dating profile."

Dr. Adams merely smiled. There was a glow about her that made House a little nostalgic, too. He missed her company. And he was impressed, not with how far she had come up the corporate ladder, but how she had already ruled out many of the differentials.

"Foreman wants to see you. When you get to Princeton be sure to stop by his office."

He nodded in response and watched his former protégé leave the apartment, the door closing behind her and leaving him alone once more.

House turned back to his book shelf and glanced up at the wooden box. The voices were gone.

* * *

At 3:26pm on a Tuesday, two homosapien feet crossed the threshold of Princeton Plainsboro. They were clad in black and yellow Nike Shox, and a solid dark red wooden cane beside them. House twirled the cane in his hand and banged the handle against the dark marble floor three times.

The many nurses, security guards and doctors stopped for a brief moment in the lobby. Everyone turned to see who was at the front door.

"Hunny, I'm home!"

A few people stopped momentarily and stared in his direction, specifically one middle aged nurse who wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or someone else. House seized the moment to make an impression on her life.

"It was a figure of speech. Actually a quote. Either way I wasn't talking to you. I'm already in a committed relationship with my boo Dr. Foreman."

She shook her head and walked off, taking a cue from everyone else and ignoring his rude demeanor.

House glanced around the lobby. The Dean's Office had been moved, replaced with a bigger in-house pharmacy filled with medications. He felt a rising urge to somehow con his way into getting those beautiful, 30mg Roxicodones that had plummeted his addiction into overdrive. He decided against it, and instead made his way to the Guest Area, where two receptionists and a security guard were posted. He recognized the African American woman, someone who worked in management who had been there quite a while. The other two were unknowns, which wasn't surprising to House. It had been over a year since he had stepped into Princeton Plainsboro, after all.

The guard was wasting his hours away lazily sitting in the back corner of the round desk, watching the cameras and drinking his coffee. The two receptionists appeared busy; one perky, nervous looking blonde woman, who was filling out paperwork, and the older and obviously more experienced black brunette to the opposite side, chatting away on the hospital phone line.

The blonde nearly jumped from her seat at the sight of House, her smile so bright he could almost see the whiteness of her teeth sparkling. She had a face of an elementary school teacher and breasts of a good stripper, a combination that would be a shame to waste behind a reception desk, so House thought to himself.

"Hello, sir! Welcome to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital! My name is Erica, how can I help you today?"

This performance was almost too much to handle. Her ponytail and breasts bounced as she spoke, almost if they were perfectly synchronized in union with each other. Her eyes, though soulless as they were, had a strange glow to them that boldly read out anti-depressants. Her entire spunky demeanor was enough to make House take a deep breath before speaking, almost as if he was unsure whether to ruin this poor girl's day or not. Almost.

"Hi", he said, in an overly nice tone, all peachy with smiles.

"I'm a special guest musician here, I'm supposed to report to the dying children on the cancer ward and sing my cover of Highway to Hell."

The bright smile of the receptionist faded a bit, and she paused. House tilted his head to the side, unsure as to if she was trying to determine whether this was a real stunt, or what floor she should send him to. The security officer behind her was stifling a laugh. This was odd, as most people were not very appreciative of House's witty humor.

"If you're a musician, then where is your instrument?"

House's eyebrow rose curiously to this response. He couldn't help it. He was on the brink of laughter.

"Well you see I got this bum leg, so I brought my groupie elves to help set up. They're all from a hot female elf world, where boobs your size are natural, and not just implanted with silicone to compensate for lack of brain size. If you'd like I can-"

The other receptionist came to the rescue. She hung up her phone and put a reassuring hand on the blonde's shoulder, ushering her to step aside. She had no problem doing this, as her bright, gleaming smile had faded into a confused, misunderstood frown.

"You must be Dr. House. Dr. Foreman told me you would be coming. You can follow me."

House nodded, still grinning at the blonde, and followed the receptionist as she worked her way past the desk opening on the side. She handed him a Visitor's Pass, obviously premade before his arrival. He followed her to the elevator, but not before turning to the security guard and making one last remark.

"Tell the other village people I said hello."

The elevator doors opened and both of them walked in. The receptionist pressed the 9th floor button and the elevator started to climb.

"The application requirements have been extensively lowered. I guess the amount of dumb blonde milfs were low this year?"

She again said nothing, instead going through a file of paperwork that she had brought with her. Probably nothing but a rouse intended to help ignore House's witty dialogue.

Once they reached their destination, the receptionist waited until House walked out the elevator before giving him instructions. With her head still down engaged in her 'paperwork', she told him where to find the Dean's Office.

"Take a left to the Administration Ward from here, Dr. Foreman's Office will be on your right."

House simply nodded, limping with cane in hand towards the direction she suggested.

Princeton Plainsboro had changed dynamically. The walls were no longer the terracotta colors that were once there. The teaching hospital had adapted a much simpler appearance, with inauthentic black marble floor and cream colored walls, something that reminded House more of a corporate facility. More staff members filled the hallways than House ever remembered, and the many glass panel rooms had been exchanged for something more private, more akin to lambent textured stone that collided well with the rest of the dark, boring colors.

Foreman was definitely the boss, and it definitely showed.

House walked through the Administration Ward, finding strange stares from lawyers in black suits and Head of Department doctors who either recognized him or wondered what his purpose was. He stopped for a brief moment at the doorway entitled "Dr. Foreman / Dean of Medicine" and smiled at the secretary watching him from inside.

He walked through the secretary's office, a young girl who stood up from her seat and watched him with disapproval.

"Excuse me sir, whats your name? Do you have an appointment with Dr.-"

"I'm his probation officer."

"But Dr. Foreman is the Dean of Medicine."

"He's also black. Don't know if you noticed."

The woman immediately picked up the phone to call security. House wasted no time in throwing open the door and inviting himself in.

Foreman stood from his desk, which was large enough to match his ego. He smiled at seeing his old mentor.

House widened his eyes and heightened his voice like a frightened child.

"I see dead people!"

The young girl was at the doorway by now, phone in hand, watching her boss for a confirmation. House turned his head to face her.

"That was an inside joke, because I'm treating a dying psychic. Although, ironically, a black Dean of Medicine with his own private prostitute is equally unbelievable. Are you into crippled white guys too, or do you follow the 'black in the back only' guideline?"

She stared at House with a puzzled look and replied defensively.

"I'm not a prostitute. I'm a secretary. I'v worked in hospital administration since-"

"Yeah yeah yeah. And I'm Evil Kenevil. That's why I got this awesome cane."

House winked at her suggestively. She didn't know whether she was offended or confused.

Dr. Foreman waved his hand in her direction, a gesture to show her everything was fine. House took a seat, glancing around the office that still had signs of recent modifications.

The secretary closed the door slowly behind them, still watching the strange man who so abruptly invited himself in.

"Still rocking the goatee and super dome. It does a good job establishing your ghetto attitude to the world."

Foreman smirked. He expected nothing different from the old Diagnostician. He joked back, straightening his tie as he sat across from House.

"Gotta stay one step ahead of the white man, you know that."

House and Foreman exchanged an equally pleasant stare for a moment. Both of them were glad to see each other. House always knew if Cuddy were to be replaced it would be Eric Foreman, even if it was so many years ago.

"It's good to see one of the original members of the Breakfast Club again."

Foreman nodded in response. He knew House owed him for risking his career. He had used another alias for the old doctor in order to get him a liver, otherwise the committee would have shot down the request because of House's many years of drug use. It was only a month and a half ago, but Foreman hoped to see signs of improvement in House. He knew recovery time would be at least a month after transplant, and he desperately searched for clues to if House was still using drugs.

"How's your leg?"

"You mean how's my addiction. It's fine. I've recently been prescribed Suboxone. Hopefully it will dull the pain just enough to deal with you and your big breasted lackeys."

Foreman quirked an eyebrow and simply nodded in response.

"You're going to be okay House. You still have people that care about you."

As much as he wasn't used to it, House needed to hear that. He missed the shared company of others, even if it was just to ridicule them. He chose not to respond. He hated talking about himself right now, as it only manifested sympathy and worry in those he still had somewhat of an actual relationship with.

"I know you didn't call me in to talk about the patient. Dr. Adams seems like she's doing just fine on her own."

Foreman stood from his desk, and turned to the window behind him. House figured he was hiding his emotions, that whatever was involved with this charade was close to his heart. House narrowed his eyes while he studied his behavior.

"It's true that the patient needs you right now. Adams is good, but most of her team has moved on to new Diagnostic opportunities in other hospitals. The two doctors she has are pretty good with differentials, but we need more results. I want to bring you on as a consultant, there's a lot going on right now and we could use your help."

His voice had begun to shake. The usual high-blood pressured Foreman had departed, and right now all House could see was concern. It was something more than the typical worry that followed House in all his relationships. He had already asked about the drugs, about the pain. This was something else entirely.

"Foreman... Why did you call me here? What's going on?"

The Dean of Medicine turned his head back towards House. His eyes were glossy, his entire countenance shaken.

"It's Remy. She's missing."


	3. I Dream Of Remy

_"Dreams, if they're any good, are always a little bit crazy. "_

-Ray Charles

* * *

"**A**ll tests for cancer were negative except for one. The patient won't allow us to do a colonoscopy."

Dr. Edwards was a male American doctor in his thirties with a blonde comb over and high cheek bones, though with somewhat a short-stature compared to his colleagues. His tone was low and unmoving, as if he were disinterested with the current case. Adams wasn't surprised. She took a mental note of the doctor's attitude and glanced back down at the patient file below.

Edwards finished pouring his cup of coffee and started the brewer for another round. He joined Dr. Yadav and Dr. Adams at the table, sitting opposite from his dark skinned colleague. The Diagnostics Department Office still existed on the 4th floor of Princeton Plainsboro, and besides some minor modifications it was the same room where Adams studied under House.

Adams displayed a look of confusion. Nothing in the patient background revealed a family history with colon cancer or any other reason why the patient would deny such a request.

"That doesn't make any sense. Did he say why?"

Dr. Yadav was an attractive female doctor originating from India and known for being proud of her culture. She didn't hesitate to share her opinion.

"It wouldn't be all that uncommon if the patient was from Delhi. Most people consider it a form of disgrace, as it would tarnish their image not only physically but spiritually."

Edwards laughed out loud, intentionally mocking Yadav. This wasn't the first time she brought up her 'heritage pride'. He found it insufferable.

"Well, considering the fact that A.) The patient isn't from India, or any other country that would cause him to lose his reincarnation license, and B.) The patient's family history is absolutely clean of cancer, I think we can move on to other diagnostics. I'm sure he was tested for it before and just doesn't want to go through the uncomfortable experience again. That or he saw just himself in the future with a really sore anus."

Yadav fought the temptation to roll her eyes. She was used to this immaturity from Edwards. He never wasted an opportunity to verbally berate someone, especially if it glorified his own idea or reputation. She felt satisfaction correcting him whenever the chance presented itself.

"The patient claims to have telepathic abilities with both living and dead. That doesn't include reading the future."

Adams said nothing, refusing to let the conversation escalate. Edwards' independent attitude was a general standard in the department and typically welcomed as disagreements naturally brought more ideas to the table. But today it was worse. Opposing House's opinion of cancer was understandable, but insulting his colleague's heritage seemed to reveal more bitterness than originally suspected. Adams decided to bring up House again, curiously speculating whether or not he was the main reason for Edwards' short-fused temper.

"House wouldn't have pointed out the high sed rate if it was based on just a hunch."

Edwards didn't wait a second before letting off some of the simmering rage that was building up inside him. Hook line and sinker.

"Dr. House hasn't practiced medicine in over a decade, and he's not a doctor on this case! He's a consultant! And based on what I've read and heard about the man he'd be just as happy killing the patient with more useless tests than sitting in a differential trying to actually save him! Face it, he may have been brilliant once, but you can't put the life of our patient in his hands. Let it go. It's not cancer."

It wasn't until Edwards was done that he realized how much he had raised his voice. He swallowed a hard gulp, knowing that no matter how passionate he was about his opinion, he was a subordinate under Dr. Adams. Still, in his mind, they were on a wild goose chase. Nothing other than the sed rate, which is a far cry in itself, would cause them to think cancer at all.

Adams thought about how Edwards reminded her of a little Terrier, barking at the older and more experienced Great Dane over it's invaded territory. She found it difficult to not lash out and put her over confident team member in his place. She knew, however, that his anger was somewhat justified, and she also felt a strong sense of caution that refrained her from defending House's opinion. He was a consult after all, and perhaps Dr. Edwards was right, despite the obvious jealousy and intimidation that stirred inside him. Maybe House had lost it. He certainly didn't appear in sufficient mental shape to be pushing buttons on this patient.

The whiteboard on the opposite side of the room still displayed the same symptoms that were listed the first day:

Paralysis

Leg pain

Minor chest pains

Potentially high sed rate

The room fell silent for a moment. Dr. Yadav began flipping through her copy of the patient folder.

"The file lists numerous psychotherapy appointments. He was suffering from anxiety attacks starting three years ago and had weekly appointments with a psychiatrist from our hospital. Dr. –"

Adams cut her short.

"The psychological symptoms have nothing to do with our diagnoses. Trust me, I've checked thoroughly with his psychiatrist. He agrees. And symptoms that started two years ago should have nothing to do with his present condition."

Yadav and Edwards exchanged suspicious looks at each other. Edwards chose to mock instead of pry.

"I'm sure the amazing Dr. House would try to connect the dots. Why would a psychic being seeing a psychiatrist anyway?"

Yadav found it interesting as well. In her experience most proclaimed psychics were of a narcissist type and avoided social incidents where their behaviors might be analyzed by someone else. The fact that the scheduled therapy lasted as long as it did was equally surprising.

Adams didn't respond, but instead continued studying the file. A look of sudden clairvoyance appeared on her face.

"The file says the patient had been taking four to five caffeine pills a day for the last two weeks."

Edwards and Yadav both acknowledged her with an expression of unconcern. It was a seemingly useless fact made obvious during the first day the patient had been under their care. They waited for her to continue.

"When I admitted him he checked off eight hours of sleep a night in the personal health paperwork. Why would someone getting eight hours of sleep be taking that many caffeine pills, especially in his prime?"

The team pondered the question for a moment. Yadav was the first to speak up.

"When we questioned him on the pills he said the telepathic gifts take a toll on his energy levels. Since we're doctors, we can dismiss the idea of that being reality and count it as a symptom."

Adams nodded in agreement.

"So what would cause constant lethargy and paralysis in the leg?"

It came as clear as music to her ears. House's voice reverberating in her mind, a simple lesson she learned along time ago that led to dramatic, life-saving results.

_Everybody lies._

She rose from her seat at the head of the table and grabbed her coat. The other doctors followed her example.

"I think it's time we have a talk with the patient."

* * *

"Your patient's still dying. Adams says they don't think its cancer. "

Foreman hung up the phone as House nodded in response. He began pacing around his office with concern still riddled on his face. House continued to sit in the chair, bracing his forehead against the top of his cane. It was a common habit for him when in deep thought.

"Two puzzles, two solutions."

Foreman didn't acknowledge the comment, but instead began speaking as if he were talking to himself.

"She would tell me this time. I was closer to her than anyone else. After her father died, I was pretty much all she had left. We were always there for each other. When I was going through my first divorce she became like a sister to me."

House's eyebrows raised in that boyish, you-asked-for-it kind of way.

"Interracial incest. That's a big step, even for you Foreman."

"Enough with the jokes. You knew her just as long as I did. You're not worried something might have happened?"

"What's the point? She ran off. She could be in prison again. Could have joined a nudist colony in the the Pine Barrens. The only Thirteen you know is the Thirteen she wanted you to know. She could have been hiding anything."

"Not from me."

House glanced over at him. There was a mutual stare that could be understood without words. Foreman had been with House long enough over the years to know that his natural distrust with other humans was limitless. It was a useless argument.

It had been a year since House had seen Thirteen. She was her usual free-loving self then, showing no signs that her disease was approaching. Maybe she casually joined the party scene, dropped ecstasy and had one nighters with both genders, but that wasn't surprising for her. She valued her friends. She considered time with others precious, knowing what it means to have half of your life robbed from you. The only time she disappeared like this was when she went to prison for euthanizing her brother.

He thought about euthanasia.

About the promise he made to her so many years ago.

The promise to do the same thing she did for her brother.

House bit the side of his lip, looking at the clock as he tapped the bottom of his cane against the wooden floor of the office. It was 4:35pm.

"Don't suppose she has any other siblings to kill off?"

Foreman responded with a solemn glare.

It was at this point that House noticed something was strange. Despite how close Foreman and Thirteen were there was something off in his demeanor. This wasn't anxiety. It was guilt. Foreman was feeling guilty over her disappearance.

"What did you do?"

Foreman stopped pacing and looked back at House. For a millisecond his face revealed the truth, that he was shocked how House could come around to that conclusion. The defensive walls sprung up quickly and Foreman went into full defense.

"What are you talking about? I'm worried about a friend. I know that doesn't make sense in your twisted sociopathic universe but its actually common between two people that care for each other."

"You're deflecting."

House's eyes narrowed as he studied him, searching for a hint or a tell that would reveal something closer to the truth.

"You know what happened to her. You had the chance to do something about it but didn't. What was it? What didn't you do?"

Foreman shook his head defiantly and sat down in the couch on the opposite side of the room. He hung his head down, hands folded in one another, eyes focused on the floor below him.

"Now's not the time to be hiding anything. If you care about her at all, then say something!"

"Fine!"

Both men sat in silence. House turned his body to face Foreman directly. He reached down and grabbed his leg. The bupremorphine was having little to no effect. The subject of their conversation wasn't helping either. After another minute of indecision from Foreman House had enough.

"Sorry, not a fan of foreplay. She could be dead by now and you're wasting time pretending to care because of some imaginary self-guilt contrived to feed your ego. Even worse you're wasting my time. I'm already here trying to solve one puzzle for you, and I might as well make sure he isn't dead yet."

He got up to leave. Foreman stood from his position, walking to the front of the door and blocking House.

"Sit down."

House returned to his seat, his face showing the impatience that was failing to settle within.

"About three months ago the symptoms started. At first it was just an exasperated twitch, dropping a folder, restless legs. It progressed. The more she became physically unstable, the more her mental state began to panic. I talked her into seeing a therapist, but it didn't help. She started using. Last month she got busted for stealing pain meds from the pharmacy while withdrawing from heroin. I didn't know about the drugs until afterwards, but by then the damage had been done. Fortunately I was able to talk the board out of removing her license. She's still an employee here, but there's a good chance she'll be losing her job after the trial."

House thought the situation over. He waited to respond, studying Foreman's countenance, searching for any other hints that might reveal he was hiding something else. He was satisfied.

"Full blown Huntington's takes a year to progress, sometimes shorter depending on the age of the patient. Unless she was doing a deformed version of the robot while treating patients there's no reason why she still couldn't take part in differentials."

"It's her mental state, House. She's not healthy. I knew after her suspension she was probably upset with me. I didn't expect any phone calls, so I went by her flat. It was for sale."

"And when was this?"

"Last Friday."

House began to think the situation over. This wasn't just a puzzle, it was a tragedy. She knew it was inevitable, and even then she couldn't handle the truth. He suddenly felt guilt for being the first to coax her into getting initially tested. To be wondering every day how long you have left on your life clock and then being hit in the face with it one subtle afternoon. He stood up and walked to the door.

"Keep looking. If she's still alive, she'll either be on the streets or in jail. Doubt she'll want to shack up with a stranger for too long. Now if you don't mind, I got a patient that's definitely dying."

* * *

Dr. Adams and her team walked into the patient's room and closed the sliding door behind them. Linus laid in his bed, still gripping the railings with shaky hands despite his IV being connected to a morphine drip. His girlfriend sat beside him, a decent looking girl with jet black hair and heavy mascara. She was relieved to see her boyfriend's doctors return. Edwards smiled, but noticed a certain innocence in the eyes when he looked at her. He immediately characterized the girl, seeing a naive person who might be prone to believe anything, especially when it's coming from her loved one.

"Did you find out what's wrong with him? It's not cancer is it?"

Edwards shook his head.

"It's not cancer, but we still don't have a diagnosis. We think your boyfriend might have underlying condition that could intensify-"

Adams cut him short.

"Cancer is still on the table until you allow us to do a colonoscopy. Until then, we're going to rule out other factors. You said you were popping caffeine pills four to five times a day, but your admittance form tells us you've been getting eight hours of sleep every night. That's quite the anomaly."

Linus looked at each doctor for a moment, then to his girlfriend. She looked confused, but put her hand on his, and he released his grip on the railing and locked fingers with her. His voice was rugged from enduring nights of pain.

"I felt tired during the day... Coffee and energy drinks would never do the job."

Dr. Adams watched their body language intently, searching for any sign of tension in the relationship.

"It could be linked to whatever is causing the paralysis in your leg. We need to know every detail we can. We still don't know if it's an environmental exposure, genetics or infection. We're just trying to narrow down our possibilities."

The supernatural showman looked much older now than he did in his pictures and videos. His eyes had dark rings around them, and his face thinned out to look excessively gaunt. He seemed nervous, glancing around the room and biting his bottom lip.

The girlfriend recognized his state of anxiety, though she herself still looked puzzled.

"You said you were promoting your new 'Words From Beyond' video, didn't you? Was that really why you were always so tired when I saw you in the mornings?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but something was wrong. His grip on her hand started to shake, and he struggled to spit out the words that he was trying to say. The sounds of gurgling could be heard from his mouth. His body rocked back and forth compulsively. When he finally did speak, he could only mumble two words.

"My… chest…"

The doctors were already surrounding him. The ECG monitor began beeping loudly as Adams turned the patient on his side. Dr. Yadav listened intently with her stethoscope pressed against his upper back. Adams shouted loud enough for the nurses outside to hear.

"Respiratory Arrest! We need some help in here!"

As the nurses rushed in to help get the patient stable, Yadav looked up at Adams with a state of confusion on her face.

"He's drowning from fluid in his lungs. This definitely isn't cancer."

* * *

House took the elevator down to the 4th floor, following the pathway to the office of Diagnostics. He paused as he passed Wilson's old office and looked through the glass window in the door. They had turned it into a private oncology consulting room for children, with bright blue wallpaper of clouds in the sky and a hot air balloon flying in the corner.

House smiled. He could feel his heart hurting, that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He missed his best friend.

The door opened and a woman with love-filled eyes and a carefully appropriate smile that reeked 'Oncologist' stepped through.

"Can I help you?"

House was still staring at the hot air balloon.

"I don't think so."

She stood at the doorway until House walked away. Memories of events prior to Wilson's death began swimming through his mind. One moved to his frontal lobe and took hold.

It was a Black Crows concert in Jacksonville, where he finally convinced Wilson to take a rip off a bong that was being passed around in the crowd. At first Wilson hesitated begrudgingly. House had to convince a cute red head in a purple tank top to shotgun him the smoke, which turned into a sloppy French kiss that left Wilson speechless.

He spent an hour throwing up in the polyjohn afterwards, complaining that the room was spinning and the pot was laced. Alcohol and marijuana and redheads were too much for him.

House reached his old office. He glanced at the door for a moment, seeing the grey text in all capitals reading 'DR. JESSICA ADAMS'. He placed his hand on the door handle but stopped when he looked inside.

The room was empty. They hadn't been gone long because the coffee brewer had just been started. Whoever was drinking coffee had also left their patient folder on the table. House walked in and quickly snatched it up. He skimmed through the file, looking for anything that he may have missed when Adams brought it by his apartment.

Glancing at the patient history, he noticed that Hightower had been getting standard psych evaluations. He looked for a hospital name, somewhat surprised to find Princeton Plainsboro. From looking at the symptoms listed on the whiteboard it was evident that Adams' team had ignored the patient's previous anxiety attacks. The last attack recorded was two months ago.

House made a mental note of the doctor's name listed. He decided it'd be best to sneak down to the Psychology Ward and do some R&D himself. He tucked the red folder under his blazer and departed the diagnostics office while whistling the James Bond theme song.

It was only after entering the elevator when House realized he didn't know the new location of the Psychology Ward. He turned to the back wall, looking at a map of the hospital. Another elevator passenger entered behind him. House questioned him without turning around.

"Do you know what floor the psych ward is?"

After a moment of silence he turned and noticed a sharply dressed young man beside him who was bobbing his head away to music. His headphones were so loud House could understand the rap lyrics. He sighed, taking another glance at the over complicated map and finding his destination. When he turned around he noticed the man next to him was heading to the same floor.

As the elevator climbed downwards House looked over to his traveling companion.

"You're an idiot."

He noticed House's staring and removed his headphones.

"Sorry?"

"I was just asking if you're an intern."

"Oh, yeah, I mean yes sir. I'm doing clinical rounds this year for my elective credits. I'll be graduating in four months and-"

"Yeah yeah yeah, that's wonderful. Do you have a lab coat?"

The intern paused for a moment, evaluating the given scenario.

"It's in my locker on the second floor."

House smiled mischievously.

"Wanna make fifty bucks?"

* * *

Dr. Stapleton glanced at his watch. It was past five o'clock, and he still had numerous papers that needed to be filed. He stretched his arms and yawned, feeling the unmistakable tiredness that crept on every day around this time. He decided to grab a coffee and try to rush things.

As he stood up from his desk and grabbed his coffee mug, he heard a knock at the door.

"Come in."

"Dr. Stapleton?"

The visitor's lab coat seemed strangely large for his size, and he looked the age of a med student or intern. Judging by his exasperated tone something dire had occurred.

"Can I help you?"

The younger doctor didn't hesitate.

"Yes sir, I just wanted to come and tell you there's lady with child in the cafeteria. She said that she was formerly a patient of yours and the baby, well… that the baby is yours, sir."

Stapleton stared at the young man, slowly ingesting what had been said.

"That's impossible. Is this some sort of joke?"

"No sir, it's not a joke. Can you please just come talk to her? She refuses to talk to anyone but you. Security was going to handle it but they figured-"

"Yes. Fine. I'll come."

He went to his desk and dropped off his coffee mug, following the young man out the room.

House waited behind the corner of Dr. Stapleton's office until he was out of sight. He turned the door handle and quickly, though quietly, snuck into the room. It was one of many times he found himself breaking into another doctor's office, but coincidentally the second time he had ever broken into a psychiatrist's office.

For a psychology major, his office was incredibly boring. The only thing that existed besides a desk and file cabinet was a small framed picture in the opposite corner of Stapleton and a brunette woman, probably his wife or girlfriend. House ignored it and turned his attention to the desk.

He knew the file cabinet would be locked, but hoped Stapleton kept an spare key in his desk. He rifled through it, tossing personal belongings to the side, until he found a ring of unlabeled keys.

"Damnit."

House turned to the file cabinet by his side. He knew he didn't have long, the cafeteria was on the bottom floor and maybe thirty yards away from the elevator. He wasted no time and began trying each key. Even if Stapleton came back and discovered him there, what could he do? His license had already been revoked years ago.

Finally, one of the keys slid snuggly into the lock. He snatched out the drawer and thumbed through the files categorized under 'H'. It didn't take long until he found what he was looking for. He quickly opened the folder and read through the contents.

Before he could finish looking for any underlining symptoms or notes, the sound a key being pushed into the door ended his query. House shoved both red files, Hightower's psych folder and the patient folder, into the side of his blazer. By the time he turned around he was face to face with Stapleton.

The psychiatrist looked as if he was still in his forties, but easily athletic enough to chase down a cripple. His face was a steaming crimson. By the way the tendrils of his long hair were in his face, it was evident he came back to his office in a hurry. The intern must have squealed.

"You're House, aren't you? I've heard your name many times, always associated with crime or addiction!"

"I bet. It's also a noun."

House smiled at his retort, but either Stapleton didn't understand the joke or didn't care. He approached House even closer and stuck out his left palm.

"Give me the file. I know you took it."

House stared at him intuitively for a moment, and then down at his hand. He had a tan line around his ring finger.

House turned around and looked again at the picture on the wall.

The girl in the picture was Adams. How did he miss that? He faced his accuser and nodded with the performance of an actor that had lost hope in the world.

"Your right… It was a crazy idea. I'm, I'm sorry."

He handed the patient folder to Stapleton, but was careful to keep Hightower's psych evaluations in hiding. The psychiatrist walked over to his cabinet and tossed the file inside without inspecting it. He then reached for the phone, mumbling and cursing as he snatched it up.

"You've got about three seconds before I call security!"

* * *

"You're an idiot. Do you know what kind of trouble you could have gotten into? Medical license or not you can't just snoop through someone's office! You're lucky the board hasn't banned you from the hospital by now."

Foreman was more than flustered. He was walking with House through the parking garage with briefcase in hand. House didn't say anything, but simply tried to tune out the aggravated voice. Foreman was taking out his anger on him.

"First day back as a consultant and you're already breaking into offices and pissing off receptionists enough to go to human resources."

House didn't seem effected.

"If you're jealous I got the kid's help instead of yours I just want you to know you're my go-to-guy for grand theft auto."

Foreman stopped in his tracks, turning to face House.

"I'm not Cuddy. I'm not going to deal with your arrogant, self-inflating, narcissist ass of an ego. This is _my_ hospital. You'd think after risking my career to help you…"

House rolled his eyes.

"Oh here we go. Second time today. Is that it? Have you said what you want? Good. Well let me tell you what I think! And I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon!"

Foreman showed no evidence of emotion on his face.

"Seriously? You're quoting the Princess Bride as a comeback?"

"Actually I was grading your street cred. Knowing where that quote came from cost you fifty points."

"You're sad."

Foreman turned the opposite direction towards his car. House raised his cane to stop him.

"How come you didn't tell me Adams was married to Stapleton?"

Foreman shrugged.

"I heard it was a short thing that never had potential."

"That's what she said."

Foreman looked at him confusingly.

_"That's what she said."_

Foreman rolled his eyes and continued walking to his vehicle. As he opened the car door he shouted out to House.

"And if you plan on coming back to this hospital you're going to apologize to Erica!"

"Who?"

"The milf!"

Foreman entered his vehicle and started the ignition. As he pulled out the garage he focused his thoughts on Thirteen. Ever since her disappearance, it had been difficult to sleep or stay at home without being tempted to exert some sort of energy to locate her.

At one time they were lovers. And even now there were times where the flame would be rekindled for a night. When his marriage was falling apart, she was the only friend he could go to. They were close. Multiple times he had offered her different trials and experimental treatment options that might have reduced the symptoms of her disease by another year, but after the relational hardships it once caused she always refused.

He felt his stomach knot up at the thought of her. She valued her relationships more than a potential treatment. Of all the times that he acted like an ass to her, or treated her unfairly, he was sorry. He'd do anything to get her back home at this point.

_Where are you Thirteen? Why are you doing this?_

_You had always put friendships above your disease then, why wouldn't you do the same now?_

His cell phone started ringing. He answered it with a heavy heart.

"Hello?"

It was a female voice, calm and professional.

_"Hi, Dr. Foreman?"_

"Yes, can I help you?"

_"Yes sir, my name is Sarah Vaughn from Bergen Regional, there has been an incident with one of your employees. Unfortunately she's unable to communicate, so we're reaching out to all-"_

"What's her name? What's wrong with her?"

_"Remy Hadley… She won't be coming into work for a while-"_

"What's going on? What happened to her?"

_"I'm sorry sir, I can only communicate that information to family or loved ones…"_

"I am a loved one damnit! Tell me what happened!"

The voice on the other line hesitated a moment. To Foreman, what seemed like a few seconds of silence felt like minutes.

_"She was raped."_

* * *

The night had fallen in New Jersey. Snow fell from the sky like feathers, light and soft as they touched the skin. House looked around. He was on the balcony of Princeton Plainsboro. He didn't have a clue as to how he made it there.

He looked down and realized he was in a tuxedo, neatly dressed from head to toe for whatever the occasion represented. He felt his face, and noticed his beard was shorter. His hair was thicker, and shorter in length. He was in the body of himself ten years ago.

He noticed a woman sitting on the balcony ledge in front of him. She was facing away and wearing a backless purple gown that hugged her curves delicately, like something out of a romantic novel or ballroom scene. He stepped closer. It was only after she spoke that he recognized her voice.

"You took your time. I've been here all night."

He froze.

"Thirteen?"

The woman turned to the side. It was Remy, and she was beautiful. Her hair was done up, revealing her elegant stature and neck line. House looked around him, looking for an answer as to why he was here and what was going on. She smiled, a look of tranquility in her eyes, something that made House feel peaceful and calm.

"Dance with me?"

House shook his head.

"I don't really dance. Sorry."

"I've never heard you say sorry before."

"I'm afraid."

"Why are you afraid?"

"I don't know."

"Dance with me."

"I can't."

"But you promised."

She stood up, kicking her heels off the edge of the balcony. She slowly moved closer to the edge, staring down at the many lights below.

"Dance with me. You promised."

House froze, not wanting to give her anymore reason to jump.

"Thirteen…"

She turned around and smiled. There was something about the curve of her lips, the fragility of her face that made House's heart skip beats. And then she was gone.

House sat up from his bed. His sheets were soaked with sweat, and his leg was writhing in pain. He rolled over to the side and puked. The dream he had just experienced was fresh in his mind, and made no sense to him at all.

He reached down and grasped his leg, the pain like razor blade bristles climbing up his body. He grunted, letting a mixture of his spit and puke slide down his chin. The agony was too much to bear.

The bupremorphine had worn off quicker than he predicted. It simply dulled the pain to a barely tolerant level that afternoon, but brought the pain back full-fledged when it wore off.

House's mind raced with thoughts. The dream was still crystal clear to him, but the extraordinary pain caused it to blur with his rational mind. He had no answer. It was like something from a fiction novel.

He reached a hand out towards the dresser beside him, grasping it for support as he lifted his body out of the bed. He began limping towards the living room, grabbing his cane from beside the dresser. Even with the extra support it felt like nails were being driven into his foot every time his injured leg touched the cold floor.

It was too much strain under the weight of pain he was in. It was like an anchor holding his body down. He awkwardly fell sideways into the bookshelf, knocking over books as he grasped anything to support himself. As he struggled to stabilize himself, he looked up and saw the wooden box. A light at the end of the tunnel.

_Wilson…_

_I'm sorry._

It was one of many times he failed as an addict, but it hurt just the same. With one hand grasping the shelf for support , he swung his cane upwards towards the box. It fell to the wooden floor, broken and shattered, a syringe, bottle and rubber strap falling out.

House collapsed on the ground. While laying with his back against the floor and his hands shaking violently, he grabbed the syringe and filled it with the morphine. Using his teeth and free hand he tied the rubber around his arm, tightening it into a knot and thumping his finger against the vein.

He didn't even feel the pinch as the needle dived in. He pushed the plunger and closed his eyes.


	4. An Animal In A Cage

_"I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life."_

- Sherlock Holmes

* * *

**F**oreman parked his Lexus in the garage lot of Bergen Regional Hospital and rushed to the entrance. The hospital was an hour away from Princeton Plainsboro, and though he broke the speed limit it was still a forty minute drive. He passed through the emergency room, through the connecting clinical hallways and arrived at the Intensive Care Unit. He stopped at the front desk, out of breath and flushed with perspiration.

"Remy Hadley, where is she?"

The nurse was an older woman who seemed preoccupied on the telephone. She stared at him for a moment, and then hung up.

"Give me one moment sir while I look up the name. Are you a family member of the patient?"

Foreman didn't have time to explain his relational status to the woman.

"Yes, of course, do you have the room number?"

The woman responded with an agitated glare as she began clicking on her computer.

"We have her in room 203 which is up one floor. Would you like me to give you directions-"

Before she could finish Foreman was already sprinting for the fire escape. Thoughts began running through his mind.

_How did this happen?_

_Was she living on the streets?_

_Remy is a tough girl. One guy couldn't have taken her down easily._

_What if she was injured?_

_Her mental state was fragile enough already… _

He felt an abundance of guilt wash over him. Over the two weeks between letting her go and finding her home for sale, he never once thought to check up on her. During that time he put his job as priority over everything: the board meetings, the patient lawsuits, and the many other responsibilities of a hospital administrator. He failed by placing these obligations above her, and therefore he was to blame for everything.

Foreman nearly pushed a patient down as he swung open the stairway doors and proceeded to climb. He began to wonder if she would even want to see him after all that occurred. He remembered his conversation with the woman on his cellphone.

_"Unfortunately she's unable to communicate…"_

Why wasn't she speaking? Was it due to her mental state or a physical injury?

As soon as he made it to the next floor he saw a room down the hall with two police officers standing on either side. One of them was filling out paperwork. He rushed towards them, knowing without glancing at the room number that they were investigating Remy's case.

When he turned the corner his heart sank. She was gone. He checked the room number to make sure he was correct.

_Room 203. Damnit._

The ECG had been reset and the sheets already dressed. She had been gone for a while. He turned to the female police officer behind him, who was waiting for her partner to finish filing papers. She was following his train of thoughts.

"How long?"

"She left about thirty minutes ago. She didn't say a word ever since she arrived yesterday afternoon, from what I heard from the 'doc the poor girl's beyond traumatized. We had lots of trouble identifying her; she had no driver's license and none of our officers recognized her as a casual user. As soon as we did find out, it was even more difficult to find any family or friends to contact."

The overwhelming shame submerged his heart like an anchor. After seeing her flat for sale Foreman presumed she had moved away, maybe taken a sabbatical to another country. She had vanished many times before, but there would always be an e-mail or phone call a week or two later. It was just a few days ago that he sensed something was wrong and began calling the police station, homeless shelter and numerous hospitals around New Jersey. He even called the Fox Hole, a place Remy frequently visited, and questioned doctors that treated Remy in the past.

Still out of breath from the emotional rush he leaned against the wall, refusing to rest until he knew he did everything in his power to reach Remy.

"Sir, please have a seat. I'll explain what I currently know and then I'd like to discuss your personal history with the patient."

She reached out to grasp him on his shoulder, but he pushed it back, his mind still set on his objective.

"Where did they take her? I'm Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro, we can treat her there. This woman is a victim of Huntington's Chorea, her mental and physical state are at risk-"

"We know. The doctors noticed the symptoms and ran a blood test on her arrival. She will be alright, but you need to take my advice and sit down."

There was something calming and reassuring in her tone, even if it was unconvincing. Foreman complied and took a seat in the recliner by the bed. He brushed the sweat from his brow, looking up at the officer as he waited for an answer.

"Miss Hadley was at a known location for the distribution of narcotics, mainly heroin and cocaine. We predict that the physical symptoms of her disease caused a couple of the men to take advantage over her sexually. Luckily one of our undercover officers was patrolling the area when he heard her crying inside the house."

Foreman shook his head, refusing to believe what he was hearing, and buried his face into his hands. He gained control over himself and responded in a broken, hushed voice, terrified to hear any further details of the tragedy.

"Is she okay? What are her injuries? It couldn't be much if you only kept her for a day."

There was still a fragment of hope in his voice.

The officer sat across from him on the patient bed. As she clutched her hands together and lowered her eyes Foreman immediately realized the worst information had yet to be revealed.

"There weren't very many physical injuries besides some minor dehydration and bruises along her body. She was a little malnourished from the lack of food that was given to her, but after a day's worth of hospital care she was okay. They have her at the state mental hospital getting further treatment."

Foreman froze. His entire countenance changed. He felt as if his heart was caught in his throat, and his stomach turned with the sudden knowledge he received.

"How long… how long was she there?"

The officer bit her bottom lip.

"She was there for seven days."

* * *

House's eyes burned as he began to blink. His sight was still blurry, but he could make out a figure standing above him. It was the voice, annoyed and agitated, that settled all suspicion.

"I tried calling. You're phones off."

"It's broken. It's actually kind of nice."

"Then get it fixed. I had to flirt with your land owner to get your apartment key. You owe me."

"Really? Is he a psychiatrist too?"

He propped himself up on his elbows and saw the syringe still protruding from his forearm. He had passed out before pushing the plunger all the way down and a small amount of the morphine still remained. Adams took notice of his reaction and reached down to remove it, but House swatted her hand away and did it himself. She gave a sigh of frustration; kneeling down on one knee and helping him sit up. For House, the room was still spinning and his basic motor functions lacking. The dream about Thirteen was still fresh in his mind.

He noticed the patient folder and Adams' car keys on the table. Her coat was hanging on his desk chair, and although the apartment was still a mess he knew some of his things had been moved. She had already been searching for more drugs. She read his reaction.

"You're an idiot. I found your stash in the kitchen. Make it easy for me and tell me where the others are so I won't have to search this entire disgusting apartment."

House simply glared at her. He braced himself up against the bookshelf, desperately trying to keep himself from nodding out. For the first time in a long time there was no pain. He concentrated on feeling what was left of his saturated receptors before it returned. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the feelings of euphoria.

"I'm out. That was all the morphine I had left."

Adams wasn't easily convinced. From the many years of knowing House she was sure he had reserves hiding somewhere.

"Then where's your secret-secret stash?"

House squinted one eye open with an immediate scowl on his face. The fact that she had woke him up from his blissful sleep didn't help. He was convinced she wouldn't leave until he gave her something, and that innate ability of negotiation within an addict's mind began to blossom.

"You really are annoying you know that?"

She sighed, taking off her coat and tossing it on the coach. She crossed her arms defiantly, waiting for an answer.

"I need it. I'm in pain."

"You need 20cc's of morphine for pain? You could have easily been at death's door last night. You're playing with fire House. It took me ten minutes to just wake you up. You should listen to your own heartbeat, even now you aren't far from going into respiratory depression."

"It's not my first rodeo. I think I can handle it."

"That's the problem. You think you can. Whatever pain you're going through, it can be managed-"

"If you think you're ready for this conversation, go force a blood clot in your leg and watch your muscle die. Until then, shut up."

House was now grasping at the deformity on his leg as Adams stared quietly. She took a deep breath and squatted down in front of him. She could already feel the enabler's guilt rising within her, but she was out of options. Her patient was dying, and after spending all morning in differentials her team was still nowhere.

"Because you are in pain, and because I don't want to watch you kill yourself, I'll get you a prescription of Oxy. Two conditions. One, after the patient is cured and you're consulting job here is over, you go back on bupe or find a way to detox. I'm not going to be caught holding your hand through this. I'm not Foreman."

"And the second?"

"You tell me where your stash is."

House bit his upper lip and nodded towards his closet.

"The second row of shoes behind the door. The black and silver ones."

Adams got up and walked towards the closet, opening the door and grabbing each shoe separately. She shook them over her hand as two bottles of morphine fell out of each.

As soon as she was distracted, House reached over and grabbed the syringe. He shoved the needle deep into his leg and plunged what was left of the morphine into his body. It wasn't enough to nod out on, but it would give him another few hours without pain.

Adams went to the kitchen sink and began pouring the out the bottles. House slowly climbed to his feet, picking up his cane and walking towards the living room coffee table. He snatched up the patient file before collapsing on the couch.

"What's going on with the patient?"

"Yesterday his lungs filled with fluid, but we were able to insert a biofilter and remove most of the excess liquid. If we don't do something soon he'll need a transplant. Edwards is doing an LP and Yadav is finishing other tests to rule out infections. We think it might be-"

"Edwards? You mean bite size Edwards?"

Adams emptied the last bottle and opened the fridge to look for a drink. Nothing but scotch. She shut the door and took a seat by House on the couch.

"I know that when you were head of Diagnostics you insulted your team like it was some sort of performance evaluation. We kinda grew out of that since you've been gone."

"Edwards is an insecure moron who puts people to sleep for a living."

"He's the best anesthesiologist at the hospital. We found him volunteering in the ER and he saved the patient that day. He might have short-man-syndrome but most of the time his ideas are worth listening to."

House looked at her with sarcastic disgust.

"You guys need me. Really, really bad."

Adams ignored the comment and continued discussing the patient.

"Hightower has been spending the last few weeks with his girlfriend at the old park near Glouschester, it was a daily routine for them in the mornings. We discovered the gardening staff had recently switched to a different pesticide due to allergy complaints in the neighborhood. I started him on pralidoxime, two grams per liter. Maybe we'll see a difference."

"Doesn't explain why the girlfriend or anyone else who visits the park isn't sick. He would have gotten better by now."

"We're running low on possibilities. It could have caused an allergic reaction that suppressed his immune system, opening the door to all kinds of toxins he's surrounded by on a daily basis."

House ran through the list of symptoms over and over in his mind. There was still something missing, and even after reading the psychological evaluation that was stolen from Stapleton's office he still had nothing. Instead of rebuking her differential he chose to insult the patient's profession.

"You would think a psychic could at least tell us how he'll die. This differential would be a whole lot easier."

"The patient doesn't claim to read the future, just the ability to speak to the dead and telepathically with others."

"He should have asked his ancestors for clues of cancer before wasting our time with the tests."

"Actually, he refused to consent to a colonoscopy. But the MRI didn't find any tumors."

House glared at her. She looked away, knowing in her mind that he considered all information to be critical, even if it didn't make a difference to her in finding a diagnoses that fits.

"Did he say why?"

"After almost drowning from the fluid in his lungs yesterday Dr. Yadav coerced him into telling her. He said he went through the same test a few years ago and didn't want to endure it again. He was pretty confident he didn't have colon cancer."

"Did you check his records? Was he telling the truth?"

Adams let out a short breath, a sign that she was getting irritated by the pointless questioning.

"We didn't see the need to. At that point-"

"Has his girlfriend been in the same room since he was admitted?"

She waited a moment to respond, trying to envision House's train of thoughts.

"Yes… she goes with him to every test. She's very devoted."

House furrowed his eyebrows. Adams could tell an idea was cultivating. She helped speed up the process.

"And don't forget the caffeine pills… His lethargy during the day has to be an underlying symptom."

"It is a symptom. But not of infection."

It had been a long time since Adams saw 'the look'. It was a term coined by House's team back when he was department head at Plainsboro, a single moment when the world stopped rotating and House suddenly found the missing piece of the puzzle. His eyes had a light to them, an energetic glow that meant the case was almost over. It brought a smile to her face.

He jumped up from the couch and walked towards the bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

"To get my pants. We'll take your car."

* * *

"You're going to feel a slight pinch, just try to relax."

Dr. Yadav carefully inserted the long needle into the soft area behind Linus's neck, stopping when she hit the soft tissue that bridged his spinal cord. She grasped the vial beside her and began collecting the patient's spinal fluid. The patient seemed uninterested and his girlfriend looked overly anxious. She decided to talk to them, hoping to bring comfort to the strange experience.

"Where I'm from making a profession in reading another person's future is very common. Some are even held with high praise and influence. We call them mānasika, or śikṣaka if they also communicate with the other world."

Linus felt an uncomfortable heat as it crawled along his back. His girlfriend stood by his side, gently rubbing his arm and watching the monitor. He spoke in a low and wheezy, though dignified manner.

"Tarot cards and crystal balls have their place in entertainment. But the gift that I have, the responsibility, it easily offends others because it invades the only private place they truly have."

Edwards stood behind Yadav, watching the monitor as an assistant to the lumbar puncture. He couldn't help but stifle a laugh and make a vocal point against Linus's theory.

"It's fake entertainment, which is fine. So is wrestling, but thousands of people still show up ringside because it taps into their passion. I'm not trying to offend you, but you can't possibly be able to read my thoughts at this very moment."

His girlfriend was the one to defend him first.

"The gifts Linus has are unique. You can't just ask him point blank to interpret your thoughts. Telepathy requires energy and strength that he's simply lacking right now."

Yadav slowly pulled the needle from its injected point in Linus' back. He could feel the pressure subside as it left his body. She chose not to comment on the topic of debate, knowing there wasn't anything she could say to change Edwards' mind. She herself was very rational, of course, but found it an easy topic to relate with.

"You need to lay flat for an hour after the lumbar puncture. We're done."

Linus turned slowly onto his back and looked up at Edwards, who was still waiting for a proper response. With a deep breath he began speaking in a stronger tone, one without hesitancy or weakness.

"You are jealous of Dr. Yadav, but not because she does lumbar punctures better than you. You feel that if you do not use your energy towards defying those that aren't above you, no one will listen and they will discover you are only here because of a mistake. What that mistake is I am not sure, because it is clouded by feelings of remorse and guilt. What is interesting, from what I can see, is that you believe more in the supernatural than you think. You believe in chance, and in destiny; but you refuse to risk when the time comes because of fear."

Edwards was listening with an expression of strong discomfort on his features. He was trembling. All that the patient said was true, yet his rational mind could not accept it. Yadav couldn't help but smile at the sight of it, though still skeptical to their patient's 'gifts'.

"Not… Not bad. Although most of that could apply to anyone after a careful read by a con artist."

He quickly opened the slide door to leave before Linus could say anything else, only to be stopped by House who seemed to have noticed his insecurity.

"The show just started, where you going?"

"The lumbar puncture was over, I was-"

"But you didn't see my trick. Stay and watch, or else you'll think I'm just a big fat faker like this guy."

House approached the patient bed and pulled a stack of tarot cards from his pocket. Edwards stood in the corner, still shaken by what he had heard, and exchanged glances with Yadav.

House threw the first card down.

"The Fool, who is rightly named for choosing death over truth. He also plays tricks at the behalf of those that believe, like little Edwards, who probably would have known better if he actually passed his MCATS."

Edwards shuffled in despair, laughing as if House had made a joke.

"I did pass my MCATS."

"After taking it five times. You're obviously seeping with self-confidence."

He shuffled through the cards and revealed the next, tossing it at the foot of the bed for all to see.

"The Bride! Who sticks close to her knight in shining armor, with unshaken loyalty and passion! Although in reality, she's more stupid than Edwards for letting her boyfriend con her _and_ lie to her about his nightly escapades. No wonder you sent her to the park every morning. And what's this…"

The next card to be thrown on the bed was a picture of royalty, a young man in a crown who wielded a scepter in one hand and sword in the other.

"The Prince! Who climbed up the tower every night to the fool's bed, and apparently made love until the wee hours of the morning. No wonder he hid it from the Bride, because it left enough bruises to make the fool deny a colonoscopy and do foolish things like pop caffeine pills, which caused his little fool kidney to be full of nasty enzymes, which were weakened by our next guest, who comes in raging red hard-on form…"

The last card to be tossed was the Devil.

"Congratulations. You've contracted Hep C. Thanks for playing."

House threw the rest of the cards into the trashcan beside him. He grasped his cane from the bed and watched intently.

The girlfriend was staring down to the ground, her face cast in a look of confusion and sadness. She looked at her boyfriend for a response.

He only bit his lower lip, nodding to confirm. She got up to leave. Linus grabbed her by the hand.

"I'm sorry Caitlin. I loved you both to be honest, but I chose you! I knew you would be upset, which caused me even greater pain during our affair. Please think this through. In your mind, I know you had suspicions about me, does it really come as that much of a surprise?"

She snatched her hand away from him and covered her teary eyes as she left the room. He yelled to her as she darted into the hallway.

"I never meant to hurt you!"

There was an awkward silence as the patient hung his head. Yadav was still confused by the diagnoses.

"We tested him for hepatitis earlier. The tests were negative."

House nodded. He expected resistance to the diagnoses. He was surprised it wasn't from Edwards.

"It was hiding in the cryoglobulins his body was producing from the enzymes, which caused the tests to come back negative. When you started the plasmapheresis yesterday after his cardiac arrest all the associated toxins left the castle. Start him on interferon, he'll be conning idiots and riding off with the prince again in no time. Literally."

House turned to leave. Linus sat up defiantly and spoke out, strangely unaffected by the news that had just been delivered.

"She's in agony. Doubt she'll survive much longer."

House stopped, turning back towards the patient.

"There you go fooling around again. Your ex will be fine, call your boyfriend and get him in here."

"I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about the woman you promised to euthanize."

House froze. To his knowledge no one had known about the promise he made Thirteen. She agreed to keep it a secret between them. How could he have known? She would have never told a psychic that knowledge. By her own admittance she never even believed in going to psychics. Her disease made her rational, even cynical at times.

"Who told you this?"

The patient was smiling. There was something in his demeanor, something in his eyes that made House feel uncomfortable.

"She spoke to me telepathically, said you promised to kill her. From what I've seen of your character I don't expect you'll keep it."

There was a moment of silence. The possibilities came to House in an instant, but none of them made sense. Was he dreaming? How did he know? Was he being screwed with by Foreman or Thirteen in some sick, immoral way? Linus continued to stare at him with that unflinching smile, the fire in his eyes that made him impossible to read. House regretted saving his life. Adams opened the sliding glass door, motioning for House to come out into the hallway.

She handed him the bottle of pills, but not before noticing that he was seriously disturbed about something. His hands were shaking and his face a pale color.

"Sorry about that, there's only one pharmacist and a line going all the way to the clinic. Did you find out anything else on the patient?"

House snatched the bottle from her hand and popped it open, shaking out four pills and downing them. He walked away without responding.

Adams watched him until House passed the corner. She turned around and noticed Edwards, who had apparently been watching them from the beginning. Without giving time to question his sudden appearance, he updated her on the patient.

"The patient has Hep C. We're starting him on interferon."

* * *

The New Jersey sky darkened as rain clouds moved in. Foreman stared out the window of his office, his tie undone and button-down shirt untucked. He had spent all night and half the day trying to get to Remy, the emotional baggage weighing down his conscience enough to not bother returning home for a change of clothes. He watched as lightning strikes glimmered in the sky, followed by the barely audible thunder that whispered up above.

House sat in the chair opposite side of his desk. He was quiet, his mind still racing through the sequence of events. The patient wasn't responding well to the treatment despite a seemingly perfect diagnoses, and his knowledge of Thirteen left him desperate for answers. He was a rational man and denied any possibility of Linus possessing telepathic abilities. To believe in that would mean to surrender all his other beliefs and principles that he so arrogantly defended. And then there was the dream. It all had to mean something.

Foreman wasn't surprised to see him unresponsive to the sudden tragic news of Remy. House finally broke the silence.

"So you get sent to the nut house and refuse phone calls and visits from your only friends. Why would she do that?"

Foreman shook his head in frustration and turned towards House. Rain started to fall outside, droplets of water cascading down the window pane.

"Not everything is a puzzle, House. She was fragile in mind and body before all this, I can't imagine how she's dealing with it now. We have no way of contacting her without being mentally unstable ourselves. I even tried convincing them to bring me on as a neurological consultant. She's a sensitive case to them, they don't want anymore outside interference than they already have."

House noticed his hand was own twitching. The human emotion he tried so hard to deny had taken hold of him. He breathed deeply, knowing his next few words would narrow down the possibilities of the puzzle, despite risking a punch to the face from Foreman.

He had to ask. Foreman was the closest person to Thirteen, if she had told anyone it would be him.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Foreman showed no expression.

"Excuse me?"

"When Remy was here, did she say anything about me? Something about a promise I made to her a long time ago?"

"No. What promise?"

House got up from his seat and walked towards him.

"The patient I cured, whose still somehow dying by the way, said something earlier that only Thirteen and I know about. If you're trying to prove something with this, trying to teach me a lesson, making up this whole ordeal with Remy and telling my patient information just to screw with me, it's a pretty sick joke."

Foreman had been simmering with anger and guilt and hurt since the phone call about Remy. House was walking on thin ice.

"A joke? You think this is a joke? Remy was used violently and sexually by a group of drug dealing thugs, chained to a bathroom heater for an entire week and you think I'd find time just to screw with you? Are you really so selfish?"

House bit his tongue, knowing it would be best to let it go. But the puzzle clawed at his mind like an animal in a cage.

"I can understand why you want to get back at me! You want me to teach me a lesson, that's fine, but there's nothing to learn here. Just give me an answer! I need to know the tr-"

House was interrupted mid sentence by a punch to the face. It was a hard, rage-filled hit that sent him on his back against the wall. His world was distorted for a moment. When he came to, he lifted his hand to his nose and felt blood leaking like an old faucet. Foreman stopped himself from continuing. Inside, he wasn't far from considering how easy it would be to throw House out the window and watch him plummet nine floors to the ground.

"I'm through House. I don't care what happens to you. You're never setting foot in my hospital again."

He grabbed his coat and walked out. House didn't move, but continued holding his nose to stop the bleed. Adams appeared a few seconds later, hardly surprised at the sight of her former mentor that lay bleeding on the floor.

"I saw Foreman walking out, he looked upset. What's going on? Did they find Remy?"

House stood up and moved to the side couch. He continued holding his nose, ignoring the question. She walked over to the desk, searching it for a tissue or cloth to help with the injury. By the mass amount of blood loss it was pretty evident his nose was broken.

"I can't find anything. Come on, let's get you down to the ER."

"I'm fine."

House popped open the bottle of Oxy and knocked a few back. He could tell something was bothering Adams.

"What's going on with the patient?"

Adams let out a deep breath and took a seat beside him.

"House, what happened in the room when I was away? Both Edwards and Yadav said the patient got under your skin about something. Whatever is going on, you can tell me…"

He shook his head, refusing to explain something that he himself could not understand.

"Nothing. The patient's a simple con man. I just underestimated how good of a con he actually was."

Adams glanced down, feeling frustrated as she read into House's excuses. She knew Edwards was shaken by something the patient said as well, but it was a rare moment when something got to her old mentor like this. House noticed her reactions. He snorted, tasting blood as it dripped down the back of his throat.

"What's going on with our favorite psychic?"

"He's… dying, quicker than we expected. His system was too compromised and the interferon began attacking his cells instead of rebuilding them. We're out of options. Either he had Hep C and we caught it too late, or this is something else entirely."

"Did his girlfriend return?"

Adams glanced over at him, wondering if it was guilt he was feeling. It was obvious it wasn't. By House's logic it was probably just another piece of another puzzle being rearranged in his mind.

"No."

"How long does he have left?"

She shook her head.

"It's hard to say, he's on a high amount of morphine right now for the pain. An hour. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe less."

House grabbed his cane and stood up from the couch. He exited the office with Adams close to his heels.

* * *

Dr. Edwards approached the pharmacy, watching as the middle aged man behind the counter locked away medications and organized prescriptions. He had met the same pharmacist a year ago and gotten into a high tensioned argument with him over a script of sodium pentothal. It was for a patient who was deathly allergic to propofol and other hypnotics. The argument erupted because the pharmacist didn't understand that despite the heavy regulations on the drug, it was the only way of getting the patient into surgery and ergo saving her life.

"Excuse me, sir."

The pharmacist turned around, annoyed at seeing someone at the counter when it was ten minutes past the closing time.

"Sorry, you'll have to come back tomorrow. We're closed."

Edwards wasn't giving up that easily. He felt a bitterness towards House, not only for embarrassing him in front of a colleague about his many failed MCATS exams, but also for stealing his case, one which he could have easily solved if given more time. Though House's diagnoses was probably right, he was the one to blame for the patient's rapid health decline in the last few hours. In all honesty he didn't care too much for Linus either, but the anger inside of him wouldn't be justified until he did something about House.

Seeing Adams prescribe House pills was the perfect catch to bring to the Dean of Medicine. He would most likely be impressed with the information and fire House from his consulting job. Hell, maybe Adams as well, leaving ample room to seize a promotion.

"If you could just give me a minute of your time, it would be worth it, I promise you."

He pulled out his wallet and retrieved a hundred dollar bill. Something seemed to grab the pharmacist's attention because he stopped what he was doing and approached the counter.

"Hey, I know you. I've seen you before. You got upset and gave me a bad review because I wouldn't give you a drug that was under investigation by the FCA."

Edwards smiled candidly, not expecting the pharmacist to recognize him from a verbal discourse that happened so long ago. He nodded his head, hoping to ease the man's temper and return to a negotiation.

"I am. That was a long time ago. If I remember right you had a solid argument about the penthothal. I could tell you knew your medicine, I was impressed."

The older man eyed him suspiciously.

"You don't have to kiss my ass. What do you want?"

Edwards bent over the counter and whispered, as if he were Judas betraying his king.

"Dr. Adams wrote a prescription for a fake patient earlier. The person she really wrote it for is banned from this pharmacy. I'd like a copy of the script."

The pharmacist thought the matter over for a moment, rolling his tongue in his cheek in consideration.

"Three hundred dollars and you can have as many copies as you want pal."

* * *

Adams followed House back into Linus' room and shut the door. She watched him close the curtains and approach the patient's bedside.

He dialed back the morphine drip and the patient's eyelids began to twitch. He began nudging his shoulder, waking him up out of his sleep to a state of consciousness. Adams watched from the opposite side, ready to stop House if he tried to endanger the patient's life.

Linus let out a muffled scream of agony. The treatment was destroying his body, organ by organ and cell by cell. It was too late for him now.

"Wake up, we need to talk."

House watched as the patient thrashed his legs in pain.

"What... why… why are you doing this? Just let me die… please…"

House's hand stayed on the IV dial. He looked over to Adams, who was already looking apprehensive.

"You need to leave. I'm about to do something that could compromise your career."

Adams was tempted to walk to the door and leave, closing the curtains behind her. There was something about House that still had a strong pull on her, that made compromising her morals easier than she would ever suspect. She decided against it.

"House, stop. Give him the morphine, there's nothing left we can do here. Leave him in peace!"

He ignored her, dialing the IV even more until the morphine had stopped dripping.

"Who told you about Thirteen? Did you meet with her? Hire spies that are working at New Jersey Psychiatric? Tell me."

Adams felt a rising panic inside her. What was she doing? She couldn't let this happen any longer.

"Stop it House! Stop! There are two guards patrolling outside, I will call them and have you arrested!"

House didn't care. The dream, the patient, it couldn't be a coincidence. It had to have an explanation. Telepathic abilities existed only in fiction novels and comic book movies. He wasn't going to let anyone or anything come between him and the answer, Adams included.

He reached out and wrapped both hands around the patient's throat. The ECG started beeping loudly.

"Tell me! Tell me now you son of a bitch!"

Adams grabbed the sliding door handle. She knew she couldn't let the patient die in House's hands. She had to get help.

Before she could, both her and House froze at what suddenly happened. The patient looked as if he was laughing under his breath. The ECG was still beeping, and Linus was now eerily smiling back at House, as if he had been pretending the entire time. He loosened his grasp around the patient's neck and dropped his hands. The patient leaned his head back, the same expression never leaving his face. The monitor flat lined. The horrific smile and lifeless eyes were all that was left of Linus Hightower.

House swore under his teeth and grabbed the defibrillator. He charged the paddles and began sending electric currents to the patient's heart. Adams was still stunned with disbelief.

After the fifth shock Adams walked over to House and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"House…"

Breathing heavily and still taken back by what he had just seen, House returned the paddles to the defibrillator cart.

"Time of death, 8:37pm."

* * *

Adams agreed to give House a ride home, though neither one of them spoke about what had just taken place. Only the sound of the windshield whipers accompanied them during the drive. She was still lost as to what the patient said that would affect House in such a way. She glanced over at him and noticed his nose was still bleeding. Back at the hospital she had convinced him to stop by the ER and get a temporary cast until an x-ray could be done. Whether it was fully broke or not it would support the cartilage enough to get him through the night.

She glanced down at the clock. It was 9:15.

The car stopped at the curb and Adams peered out the window. The old apartment complex looked even more run down in the rainy, storm ridden night, and it seemed appropriate enough after what she had just experienced. House broke the awkward silence.

"I'm going to need your help with something tonight. Only a few minutes."

She shook her head.

"I think I've had enough for one night. You had no right to do what you did. If someone saw me standing there doing nothing I would have lost my career."

"I'm sorry for that. But I need you to trust me."

Adams hesitated for a moment. She sensed a fear in House. Maybe he was afraid of staying alone after all that occurred and letting go to the morphine that seemed to numb his life to the brink of death. Perhaps there was another stash, and he lacked the willpower to do what was needed to be done. Whatever the case, House was pale, shaken and unstable. She would feel too guilty to sleep if she didn't help him now. He looked over at her, a look of despair in his gaunt features.

She nodded and followed him up the front steps.

As they entered the apartment, House removed his blazer and tossed it to the side. He leaned his cane against the wall and gestured for Adams to sit down.

"I've got to use the bathroom. Give me a minute."

She nodded and curiously paced around the apartment, finding House's record collection in the corner. She began thumbing through, stopping at a picture of the old Diagnostics team between two Stones records. They had looked so happy at that point, even House in his own strange way. It made her smile.

House closed the door behind him, making sure to leave it unlocked. He retrieved the bottle of pills from his pocket and dropped six in his hand. He turned on the faucet and washed them down two pills at a time. He stared at the bottle for a moment afterwards; only a dozen pills remained. Not even close to being the proper amount for an overdose.

He opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved his straight razor. The blade hadn't been used in a decade. It was still razor sharp.

He climbed in the bath tub, breathing deeply as he nervously pulled the blade from its casing. His head rested against the porcelain tile behind him, his breaths growing deeper and deeper as he gathered the courage to do what was needed to solve the puzzle that plagued his mind.

He paused, trying to think of any clue he may have missed. Something in the pattern of events that would explain everything that had occurred. The dream, the patient…

Thirteen.

It was the only way to get to her, the only way to speak to her and find out who she told. The unsolved problem was like a terrible itch in his brain, continually sending sensations that taunted and mocked. He was helpless, unarmed without the answer.

His mind replayed the dream. He regretted not dancing with her. He was holding himself back.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

He glanced at the door, realizing his life was in Adams' hands. He had to make it look real. No holding back now.

House lifted the razor to his wrist.


	5. Tough Love

_"Looks like what drives me crazy  
Don't have no effect on you-  
But I'm gonna keep on at it  
Till it drives you crazy, too."_

-Langston Hughes

* * *

**H**ouse opened his eyes. The world in front of him swayed and pulsated to his every breath, as if the idling beats of his heart dictated the world in motion that consumed him. It was a reminder of how he got there - his blood flow had weakened to a startling rhythm and the reverberating walls around him was his subconscious giving cue to the amount of time he had left.

But the thought of death had been clouded in House's mind, forced to take a seat behind the priority of the puzzle which drove him like a vehicle out of control. The problem had become more complex with the addition of the patient's aberrant death. What killed Linus Hightower? And what motive, that was worth an eternal slumber, could there be for tricking him with the knowledge of his promise to Thirteen?

The ground emitted a final shake and the blinding light above him began to separate into individual street lamps. Everything gradually came into focus. House observed his surroundings as his senses fully awakened, enlightening him to the familiar world he found himself in. He recognized the sidewalk he stood on, the buildings on either side, and the many other details that characterized the inner city area in Princeton. For a moment he wondered how he arrived there, and if he was experiencing the turbulence of a natural disaster or if it was a symptom of something neurologically wrong. And then he realized he was without his cane.

He took a step forward with the crippled leg which had always, and painfully, reminded him of the infarction so many years ago. There was no wobbling, no immediate stumble, no need to search for stabilizing support. He reached down and grabbed his thigh - it was now intact with no signs of prior muscle death. The pain was gone.

And he was dreaming.

House smiled to himself. If this was what dying felt like, he'd take it over life any day. He gazed past the street lamps and noticed a familiar building about a block away on the opposite side of the road. The neon pink sign above the doorway flickered with a luminescent glow, an incandescent landmark surrounded by the mundane city that seemed extinct. It was the Fox Hole Nightclub & Bar, a place House visited numerous times with Remy. She was a welcomed regular there and it was her typical scouting location for one-nighters with those of her gender.

_"Thirteen's favorite lesbian bar. Not a surprising draft pick for my subconscious."_

House walked casually to the door, slowly pushing it open as he stepped inside. There was a welcoming aura about the place, something besides his customary interest of watching women flirt and dance with each other. He glanced around him, noticing the place was empty. The dance floor tiles were lit with vibrant colors, changing as if in rhythm to a song that wasn't playing. Tube lights in the ceiling shot rays of blue and green on the walls, flowing in a wavy pattern that made the club seem alive with energy. The only thing missing were the patrons and staff.

And then singing. A lovely, soft voice that reverberated in the hollow room and hid the location of its performer.

"Born to lose, I lived my life in vain,  
Every dream has only brought me pain..."

It was Dean Martin's 'Born To Lose'. House didn't bother trying to deduce her whereabouts. He began singing the second verse, harmonizing with Thirteen's voice as their collaboration echoed throughout the Fox Hole.

"All my life, I've always been so blue,  
Born to lose, and now I'm losing you..."

He turned around and found Thirteen sitting at the corner bar with martini in hand. She was dressed differently than his previous dream; a navy blue top with a long beaded necklace that expressed her unique sense of fashion and skinny black jeans that hugged her curves. House wasn't surprised when he glanced under the bar and saw her trademark knee-high boots bracing against the lower railing. It was the simple things in her, like the choice of wearing boots or heels, that would reveal hidden truths - like her relational status to Foreman back when she worked on the team.

The nostalgia faded from House's mind as he approached the bar. She sipped from her glass and stared at him with those sparkling, emerald green eyes. The special and alert glow they possessed was one of the first attributes to go when the Huntington's symptoms began to manifest.

House took the seat beside her, studying her appearance before speaking out loud.

"Never knew my subconscious was a Dino fan. Always thought I'd hear Miley Cyrus while dying from a bleed out."

Thirteen curved her delicate lips into a half smile, her glistening eyes still intently focused on House.

"It may be your dream, but I'm the subject of interpretation."

"So, if I'm aware of myself dreaming, then I'm just lucid dreaming, meaning I can control and change the dream to whatever my blood deprived heart desires."

Thirteen knew House wouldn't be able to contain himself. She lifted her glass and swayed the alcohol around the sides.

"Go ahead if you must, but please refrain from crashing a train through the Fox Hole. It'd be a little cliche."

House shook his head with a mischievous smirk. Those familiar and constant gears of childish humor began turning in his mind.

"I don't really watch a lot of movies, but what I do watch, in fact..."

A beautiful blonde female from a porno somewhere in House's memory appeared beside Thirteen, scantily dressed in a suggestive low top and short skirt. She bit her bottom lip teasingly and winked at House.

Thirteen rolled her eyes.

"Are you done yet?"

"Hey don't blame me, blame my subconscious... It's not like I can force you to have sex, unless..."

House closed his eyes for a moment and squinted one eye open. Thirteen and the blonde were suddenly nude, the porn star smirking with suggestive innuendo as she caressed Remy's shoulder. Thirteen swatted her hand away and folded her arms with a look of embarrassment that quickly alternated to anger. House saw it as harmless entertainment.

"Cool."

"House!"

"Yeah your right, should have went with a redhead. I think you'll like Marie McCray, just give me just a second-"

Thirteen lifted the martini and tossed the drink into his face. House kept his eyes closed, knowing he'd feel the burn as soon as he opened them. The fantasy faded from his mind, and therefore from the dream.

"This isn't the dream for that. You know your here for a reason. What is it?"

She dangled a white cloth in front of him. House snatched it from her and dried off his face, which took a sudden display of confusion. He didn't know why he was here anymore.

Thirteen glared at him disapprovingly, waiting for a justified response. House shook his head, staring blankly at the bar.

"I don't know why I'm here, or how I arrived... Why can't I remember?"

"You're beginning to lose oxygen to your brain. Look behind you."

House shifted in the bar stool and glanced the opposite way. What he saw startled him enough to knock him backwards off his seat and almost into Thirteen. She calmly put her hand on his shoulder, gesturing him to relax.

"It's alright. He's dead."

House was obviously bewildered as to why there was a cadaver in front of him encompassed in flies. He regained his composure and responded without turning away.

"Oh, aren't you a killjoy? I think of beautiful lesbian sex and you play the 'dead guy covered in flies and maggots' card."

Thirteen nodded towards it.

"It's purpose is more significant than sinking your battleship of pride. Look at it."

The corpse was a man of African origin. His body was a canvass of tribal markings and at least a dozen piercings adorned his face. He was dressed in minimalist attire, his torso and upper legs wrapped with a decorated robe that stopped a few inches from his ankles. House deduced the dead man was a member of the Massai tribe by the decorations on his clothes.

What was so unnerving in the man that made House almost lose it was the hideous contortions that preceded the Massai Warrior's death. His facial muscles were stretched beyond human function to either sides of his face in a horrific smile, and his limbs were bent in awkward angles at every joint. The eyes, which were the most disturbing part of his affliction, bulged in an uncanny manner that made them look swollen. House had seen this before. It was a deep rooted memory, an encounter with a dead tribesman he had stumbled upon as a child. It was during a time of war between two African tribes, dating back to the time when his father was stationed in Kenya.

House took a step closer as he studied the body in front of him. He noticed a dart protruding from the back of the neck, a small but highly toxic weapon used as a projectile from a blowgun. He carefully pulled it from the corpse, studying the sharp tip. The black liquid could still be seen as it reflected in the light.

"Risus sardonicus. I remember learning about it from the locals after I watched them burn the body. A highly toxic poison derived from the hemlock water-dropwort plant."

He turned around, facing Thirteen as he twisted the dart between his fingers.

"The patient was poisoned. Which leads to the question, did he poison himself, or was there a third party? There's practically no evidence that can be found through an autopsy… They'll probably blame his cardiac arrhythmia on the symptoms that were already present…"

Thirteen slowly pulled away. She turned to the door and proceeded to exit.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"It's time for me to go. We will talk again soon."

"Wait!"

House walked after her and grabbed her by the arm. She turned with a look of annoyance and slapped him.

"Wake up."

"What?"

"House, wake up. Don't do this to me!"

House opened his eyes. He was back in his apartment, lying in the bath tub with bloodstains all over his clothes. He felt a hand slap his face again and glanced up to see Adams above him. His head swayed back and forth, finding it difficult to keep stable.

"House! Wake up! House!"

Adams slapped him a third time. His face was pale, a telltale sign of being near death from loss of blood. She had wrapped a wash cloth tightly around his wrist, her knee holding pressure against the open wound on the side of the tub. She grabbed him by his shirt collar and shook him until his eyes fully widened.

"House! House!"

House came to, shaking his head to quicken the blood flow. He quickly became aware of his situation and remembered his plan that had been set in motion.

Adams grabbed his other hand and applied it to the mended wound.

"I have to call 911."

As she turned to leave, House grabbed the support railing and forced himself up. She turned around just in time to catch him as he stumbled off balance and fell against her. It took all her strength to hold his weight.

"What are you doing!? You need to get to a hospital!"

House shook his head in defiance. His voice was a broken whisper.

"Don't… There's a surgeon's kit in the bedroom closet."

She hesitated, but now was not the time to give in. He began sliding from her grip and she hoisted him forward, pushing the other side of his body against the shower wall.

"I call 911 and you might live, I don't and you definitely die."

"I won't die. Stitch it up or I'll cut the other one."

She glanced through the doorway at her coat which rested on the couch, stuck in indecision for the second time that night.

"Damnit, Adams! After you save my life you can take me to the hospital. Do what I say!"

She nodded and wrapped his uninjured arm around her, pushing her shoulder against his armpit. In a military fashion she carried him past the doorway. House stopped her before going through.

"My pills… on the sink. Grab them."

There was no time to express how much of an idiot she thought House was, or why he was doing this in the first place. In her mind, he had never shown any indication of being suicidal; he was too much of a narcissist to even contemplate killing himself. This wasn't suicide. This was part of an elaborate plan, a designed scenario to achieve a larger purpose. Unfortunately, she wasn't aware of the plan involving her driver's license, and therefore failed to notice him pickpocketing her wallet as she retrieved the bottle of Oxy from the sink.

She set him down on the living room couch and turned her attention to the bedroom. House made sure she was out of the room before tossing her wallet underneath the couch.

He reached to the opposite end of the couch and grabbed her coat, being careful to not leave any signs of blood as he dug into the pockets. He pulled out her keys and tossed them under as well, returning her coat to it's position. With the second part of his plan completed he popped open the Oxy bottle and downed four more pills.

Adams returned with the surgical kit from the closet and began disinfecting the wound.

"It's going to take a while to stitch you up. If this doesn't work, I hope you killed yourself for a good reason."

House stared at the ceiling as if he wasn't listening. The pain in his leg was beginning to come back despite the many pills pumping through his system. He would have easily popped more if the fresh wound on his wrist wasn't releasing some of his brain's endorphins to distract the leg pain.

"Too bad you emptied out my morphine."

"You've got plenty of pills left. You'll be fine."

He watched as she began stitching the cut. The color was coming back into his hand and face. House grabbed her hand, keeping her from continuing for a moment as he forced her attention.

"I want you to take me to Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital."

* * *

Adams and House walked awkwardly down the apartment steps, her petite form still struggling against his weight. She braced him up with one arm and carried his cane with the other, patiently taking small strides across the cement - he was in better condition now, but still needed help making it to the car. As they reached her vehicle he grasped the side to stabilize himself. Adams handed him his cane and rummaged through her coat.

"My keys, I must have left them inside…"

House pulled his own car keys from the back of his pocket and tossed them in her direction.

"We'll take my car. It's the Focus across the street."

Adams grabbed him under the arm once again and hurried across. After helping him inside, she moved to the opposite side and sat in the driver's seat. She immediately made a frown and wrinkled her nose, a look of pure repugnance on her face. The car was filth-ridden with trash and old clothes. She literally had to kick away beer cans just to find the acceleration pedal.

"This, car, is gross."

House grunted in response, watching her as she put the key in the ignition. He rolled down the window.

"I had to live in it while studying up, day and night, on local addiction specialists. Don't mind the meth pipe beside you. I had to do a DNA test on my Suboxone doctor's daughter."

Adams didn't bother asking. She picked up the pipe and threw it out his window, hearing the glass shatter into pieces as it hit the pavement. House sighed.

"You are a disgrace to every Captain Planet fan that ever existed."

She shook her head in despair and shifted the transmission into drive. The potent smell of old alcohol and permeating musk reached an overbearing point to her senses, and she rolled down her window to escape it. The car left its parked position and turned the street corner.

Earlier, after House asked her to take him to the mental hospital, he refused to explain why when questioned. There wasn't much use in her arguing. He would have called a taxi from the emergency room and got to Greystone himself; it would be easier and save time to just give in to his imprudence. The congenital threat of death from the slashing of a main artery was now nonexistent, and maybe twenty-four hours of constant monitoring at the mental hospital would do him some good. House had cut his wrist after all, and whether the intended purpose was suicide or some other warped objective, it was far from normal, healthy human behavior.

House stared out the window. The rain clouds had traveled elsewhere and the moon shined like a ray of light beaming from space. It was interesting to him how the weather could change so drastically after a heavy storm; it was a metaphor of his life: a similar change of events that took place whenever he found another puzzle to solve.

The Ford Focus departed from the road and onto the Exit 38 ramp, joining many other travelers on the damp and crowded highway. There were a few minutes of silence between the two. House began to pop another pill but was interrupted by Adams snatching it from his hand. She found it strange he didn't try to stop her, clutching his mended wrist and leaning his head back instead. There was another puzzle he was focused on, albeit much simpler than Thirteen's.

"What happened to the second husband? Too much pushing rope?"

Adams was a little taken back with the abrupt subject of conversation. She hesitated, knowing there wasn't a simple response to his question. If she refused to divulge information on her martial life, House would just pry and browbeat until he found his answer. He continued to satirize her ex, taunting her in a heightened female tone. It was as if they were two girlfriends from a reality TV show talking about sex and drama.

"From what my girlfriends tell me at book club, those Hispanic laborers can go on _forever_. We should go scout out Taco Bell."

She bit her tongue, hoping if she said nothing the conversation would die out and House would move on to something else - the patient, Edwards' insecurity, anything. But there was another side of her that wanted to vent, to express and blurt out all the conflicts and problems in her failed marriage that didn't make sense. He was far from a counselor, but House seemed to have an answer for everything. She took a deep breath.

"David and I, or Stapleton, as you know him, we were happy during the year that we dated. Marriage has a way of changing perspective I guess. It was fine for a while, and then we started fighting more, heated arguments over things that didn't seem to matter much. Maybe it was his sister's death two months ago that started it, I'm not really sure. And then I found the e-mail…"

House glanced over and noticed her eyes filling with tears. To him, divorce seemed like a thing to celebrate, a worthy cause to hire a Mariachi band and drink scotch under the table. Most people that get married these days are far from being in love with one another, but they keep up appearances just to make it work. In House's opinion, they were idiots, and marriage was just a way to share their common idiotism. But he waited patiently to hear her story unfold.

She wiped her hand against her eyes and forced the memories of happier moments to the back of her mind. There was no use in dwelling on it now.

"I got suspicious and found an outgoing e-mail on his phone. He was always careful, but I knew he was seeing someone. Psychiatrists seem like they know everything about other people's problems and how they should handle them, but they're clueless when it comes to their own. We started arguing, he confessed, and I moved out the next morning. It was one of the worst nights of my life. I was heart broken, still am. And confused."

She stared ahead in silence, contemplating her memories. House didn't hesitate long before assessing the situation.

"It's a lot easier to point a finger at someone else. He would have cheated on you whether his sister died or not. You should have thanked him for revealing his true nature while it was this early. People don't change. Be glad you didn't stick with him longer than six months."

She stared back in disbelief, fighting tears.

"Seriously? That's how you comfort someone whose going through martial problems?"

House didn't take his eyes of the road. His words, as blunt and cold as they sounded, were automatic and emotionless. The man spoke nothing but his own twisted meaning of truth, and it wasn't the first time he expressed his beliefs to her.

"If you want comfort then go cry in a pillow. You're not going through problems, you're trying to deal with _a problem_ that started since your wedding day. You were married six months, not six years, and this isn't an argument about letting the trash pile up or washing the dishes. Arguments are either productive or damaging, taking fact that the relationship lasted as long as it did there had to be signs of instability during crisis. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself; you knew what you were getting into. Don't bitch for lack of emotional pre-nup."

She didn't know whether to take it as tough love or just cynicism from the old curmudgeon. He had a point; his words were like sandpaper compared to crying in a pillow, but there was truth in what he said. Still, the way he disparaged and belittled her emotional issues brought a sharp sting. She thought of the satisfaction she would feel to just lash out, to say how pitiful and useless and empty she thought House was as a person. The desire subsided in an instant. He couldn't help it. It was just who he was, and she should have expected the harsh realism of his words whether he considered her a friend or not. Even if she said all those things, he would probably be first to agree. It was simply who Gregory House was.

House didn't press the issue. He gestured his hand out between them.

"I need to use your phone."

Adams hesitated for a moment as she remembered lending him the phone back in the ER of Princeton Plainsboro; House had made an anonymous call while she was busy organizing a bracing structure for his nose. She pulled her smart phone from her pocket and went through outgoing calls. She glanced over at her old employer.

"Why did you call 911?"

House seized the moment and snatched it from her grasp, an obvious reply to her confiscating his pills. He began dialing numbers, which Adams noticed from the specified digits was a cell phone.

"I had to call my probation officer and tell him I'm going back to the nuthouse. It's usually quicker that way."

"It can also get me fined for inappropriate usage. Don't you have a phone?"

"Do you ever listen? I already told you – it's broken."

"How'd that happen?"

"I dropped it while running yesterday's marathon. Now be quiet, can't you see I'm on the phone?"

"Who are you call-"

House made a gesture of silence with his finger as the caller picked up.

"Ernie, This is House."

The voice on the other end belonged to the pharmacist back at Princeton, the same man who Edwards had bribed. He sounded content and pleased, as if some personal goal had recently been met.

"House! I've been trying to get ahold of you, your phone is-"

"Yeah, I know. Some prostitute has been throwing my stuff out the window. I think it gives her a false sense of authority…"

Adams could feel him staring at her, waiting for a response from her mouth or facial expressions. She decided to not give him the satisfaction.

"Anyway, did you take care of that thing for me?"

"Of course. Never liked the guy to be honest, he tried to get me reported a while back because I refused to give him some pentothal that was under FCA investigation at the time. That's nothin' compared to the hots he has for you though, my friend. He wants to take you down, all Edgar Hoover style."

House listened carefully as he thought the situation over.

"Sodium pentothal? Do you remember how much he needed?"

There was a pause on the phone.

"I can't recall off the top of my head and I won't be able to see the records until tomorrow, but I remember it being pretty excessive. More than the standard, for sure."

"I'll check back with you. What'd he give you?"

"Three hundred. Still waiting on your cut though."

"Yeah, about that – I'm going on vacation a few days but find Dr. Adams, I gave her the money."

"Alright, House. Don't do nothin' I wouldn't do, and if you do, name it after me."

"I wouldn't even name my pet dog after you, Ernie."

House hung up. Adams held out her hand for it, still focused on her driving.

"Who was that?"

"My pharmacy guy. I noticed Edwards spying on us when you slipped me my pills. I knew he'd use it as a brown nosing opportunity with Foreman and had the Rx name switched to something else."

"…But the first name was fake to begin with. Why change it?"

"Because when he does go and tell Foreman I need it to have an underlying purpose, besides just getting you in trouble and me another broken bone."

She glanced over and noticed he had taken the battery out the back of her cell phone.

"Black guy beating up a cripple - crazy how much we've evolved since the Rodney King days."

And with that, he threw the battery out the window, followed by the phone itself a few feet after.

"House!"

Adams thought about hitting the brakes and retrieving it, but the traffic was too much. She had little choice other than getting a replacement through insurance coverage and restoring her contacts from the backup cloud which hosted her data. Still, the immature behavior was reaching her limit.

House shrugged childishly and continued to jest.

"Quid pro quo, Clarice."

* * *

The car pulled up to the entrance of Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital. Adams watched as House stepped out with his cane, staring up at the heavily-solidified doors in contemplation. He turned to her once more, and for the first time since she had seen him again he actually seemed somewhat sincere. He paused a moment as if faced with indecision. His voice was still hoarse from fighting the intermittent pain.

"I'm… sorry for putting you through this tonight. The truth is, I don't really trust anyone else. I've always been able to count on you, and I know that kind of avocation can't be easy. You may think I was being a jerk earlier, talking about your marriage... I probably was. But I wouldn't say or put you through anything that you couldn't handle."

Adams was stunned by the sudden display of vulnerability. She opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the car door closing in front of her. She sighed, watching House as he walked up the steps. He was abrasive, rude, and sometimes just cruel; but there was a side of him that knew how to care. Possibly even love.

He stopped at the doors and listened, waiting for the sound of his old vehicle to fade into the city nightlife. Once he knew she was out of sight, he limped back down the steps and made way towards a payphone that was stationed on the near corner. There was a sharp wind in the air, and combined with the humidity it nipped at his bare skin. Under other circumstances this weather would be almost intolerable with just a T-shirt and jeans, but the strong blood flow from his recent injuries dulled the sensation. He leaned his cane against the booth and reached into his pocket for change. He noticed his hands were shaking as he slipped in coins and dialed 911.

_"911, state your emergency."_

"This is Gregory House, I called earlier to report a stolen vehicle. It was spotted a few minutes ago on Howard Drive, Parsippany-Troy Hills."

_"I'll put out a broadcast to all officers in the surrounding area. Can I please have the model, color and license plate number?"_

"2010 Ford Focus, blue, YOLO349."

House hung up the phone, feeling a sense of conviction arise within. He brushed it away from his thoughts, eager and focused on the main objective that would bring a potential answer to his puzzle. He trusted Adams, even if it wasn't mutual, and it was imperative that she failed to make it home on her own tonight. With everything set in motion, House walked up the stairs and this time entered the hospital. He approached the front desk and dropped his wounded arm on the counter, the blood beginning to seep through the bandage.

"I need to be put on suicide watch for the next forty-eight hours."

* * *

Adams was a hundred feet from the exit when she noticed the vividly bright blue sirens behind her. She pulled over cooperatively and turned off the vehicle. Before she could reach for her identification a woman officer was already at her window. She was a hardened, brutish looking cop with a fierce face that brought the word 'merciless' to mind. Her hand rested on the handle of her holstered gun as if she anticipated a threat. Adams instinctively held her hands up.

"Please step out of the vehicle and place your hands on your head."

"I'm sorry, officer, but can I ask-"

"Step out of the vehicle and put your hands above your head! Now!"

Adams said nothing but quickly, although carefully, opened the car door and got out. She lifted her hands and rested them behind her head.

The cop, with primal instinct and experience, spun her around and slammed her face against the hood. With one arm holding her hands in place, she used the other to search her pockets while reading out her rights.

"You are under arrest for grand theft auto. Anything you say from this point on can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney-"

The officer stopped midsentence, pulling out House's bottle of pills and rattling them triumphantly. She brought them closer to her eyes to read the label.

"Prescribed to a Frederick Porter. That's funny, you don't look like a Frederick. Are you a drug dealer too or just taking an evening drive under the influence?"

To her surprise, Adams didn't feel intimidated at all. After listening to House's constant banter and dealing with his never ending efforts to antagonize, all she could feel was a bitter anger simmering. There was a certain feral rage in Adams all her coworkers knew about; even House had seen its existence years ago when he handed her a baseball bat and apathetically watched as she destroyed an entire office of orthopedic equipment.

It was obvious that House had reported the vehicle stolen. He probably reported it when he dialed 911 earlier. Adams felt the officer's hand press harder against her head, pushing it firmly against the car hood.

"Answer the question!"

"Yeah, I sell drugs during the week and pimp hoes during the weekend. Don't mind the dead hooker and kilo of cocaine in the trunk."

Adams felt an aggressive grasp on her wrists as her hands were pulled behind her and cuffed. She padded down her legs and finished her search.

"Do you have any identification?"

"It should be in my wallet, in my back pocket..."

"Nothing but drugs in your pockets, miss. You do know getting high can cause memory loss, don't you?"

The officer backed off a bit and allowed Adams to turn around and face her. Her cheek was dark red from the face-plant, and a justified scowl insinuated the petulance inside.

"I must have left it at my patient's house. I am a doctor. I prescribed that medication to a patient who struggles with pain from a leg infarction. My name is Jessica Adams, head of Diagnostics at Princeton-"

The cop interrupted her, a cheeky smile on her face that sent Adams over edge.

"So you're a slutty doctor who conveniently sleeps with your patients? You should have stuck with the pimp and drug dealer story, at least then you wouldn't be a whore. Now I'm going to search this car, is there anything else you want to tell me before I do?"

All the rage began to boil over. Memories of conflict with her ex-husband flooded her mind. House's crap that night, along with Edwards' pissed off attitude earlier, and now this egotistical cop was enough to crack her composure. At that moment, all dignity disappeared and she let go.

Adams spit in her face.

It was a formidable amount. Adams kept her look of defiance. There was a moment of hanging suspense between them, and a feeling of regret set in immediately after the deed was done. She knew it was the line in the sand, and that it would initiate this officer on a driven quest for self-dignified justice. Unfortunately, at the present moment, it seemed like a fair trade.

The cop used her forearm to wipe away the dripping saliva and said nothing else. She grabbed Adams by the back of her neck and guided her towards the police car.


	6. Southern Hospitality

_"Love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage."_

-Ambrose Bierce

* * *

**F**or the second time in her life, Dr. Jessica Adams found herself behind bars.

But this time it wasn't as a nurse treating convicts. There was no strong code of employee ethics or on-duty guards to protect her. She was a sheep among wolves and jackals, or even more properly a goldfish trapped in an aquarium full of sharks and foreign entities.

She always held the impression that the differences between a male or female population were slight, and that all jails and prisons were similar enough. Most of her medical experience that involved criminals was spent dealing with felons and hard-time perpetrators, people who would spend a few years or maybe the rest of their life in the can. It was interesting to her how much cleaner the facilities were for those spending a majority of their existence incarcerated. The holding cell she was currently shacked up in looked as if it hadn't been cleaned a day in its life.

From the moment she walked in, she could sense the others watching her, studying her perfectly straightened hair and designer clothes. It wasn't a difficult mystery: she didn't belong there.

At first she tried to pretend, to visualize herself as a tough and seasoned character who wasn't a stranger to living outside the law of the land. After realizing she couldn't fool herself, much less anyone else, she gave up. Adams obviously wasn't the hardened Burt Reynolds type that would survive easily in this harsh environment. And the other girls sensed it as well.

There were seven other women locked in the holding cell; four she easily deduced as prostitutes, two detoxing junkies, and another who simply stood in the corner with a large empty area of space surrounding her. She was the "alpha" female, outweighing all other prisoners by at least fifty pounds and having the intimidating aura that kept anyone from even looking at her.

Mildew crept along the walls and edges of tile above her, the low and half rotten ceiling looking as if it would collapse at any moment. A strong, almost putrid smell filled her nostrils, an odor so potent she had to resist gagging when first confined. She noticed one of the prostitutes unzip her skirt and stumble off drunkenly with her clacking heels to the corner, where a single toilet sat without any sense of privacy. The loud reverberated sound of her urine hitting the toilet water made Adams cringe.

She had been holding her bladder for the last hour. In her mind, it might be better to wet herself rather than sitting on something so vile while being scrutinized by individuals who seemed as primitive as savages.

The sun was coming up outside, and a small ray of light shined down through the six inch rectangular window above her. Adams figured it was five o'clock by now.

An internal anger still brewed over the thought of House; just as she was allowing herself to see potential hope in him he locks her away, even after saving his life. The audacity! What the hell is wrong with him, and if this act was structured to achieve some purpose, then what ungodly purpose could it be?

Finally, a guard unlocked the barred door and called her name.

"Jessica Adams?"

She stood up.

"Your husband has posted your bail. Follow me."

She followed the guard, leaving her dungeon and fellow captives behind. She was given her phone call a couple hours ago, and it proved to be a difficult decision in her mind. Although she knew Foreman for years, he was her boss, and she could never let down her pride enough to ask him for this level of personal support. The same with her subordinates, especially Edwards, who would tell the entire hospital of her unfortunate turn of events. She had no friends, no family, and the only other person she knew of was locked up in a mental hospital himself, not to mention being the sole reason she was here. David, as many issues as they had together, would understand, and he was always there as a friend.

Adams walked through the metal detector to the side of freedom and found Stapleton waiting for her. He was dressed in his work attire with dress shirt and blazer, but from the greasy hair and stubble it was apparent that he never went home last night. She didn't bother letting herself wonder about his nightly whereabouts. The stationed entry guard slid a manila envelope across the front desk, which encased House's car keys to the impounded Focus, and handed over her leather jacket she had on earlier. Stapleton made no emotion of a happy greeting as she gathered her belongings. He added a snide remark in his Tennessee, Matthew McConaughey sounding accent.

"You smell like jail. I hear with House it's a typical first date symptom."

She felt the instinctive need to defend herself but instead took a deep breath.

"It's been a long night. Thank you for bailing me out, I'll be sure to pay you back."

"I know you will. I'm not worried about it, let's just get you home."

He put his hand on her back and ushered her forward. It was received with mixed feelings by Adams, who walked at a slightly faster pace to be relieved from his touch. They exited the county jail and started down the front steps. The sun had barely begun to rise, and the exuberant streaks of blazing yellow tore into the darkened sky in a beautiful panoramic view. Adams felt a relief of stress as the heat tickled her nose and lifted her spirits. The feeling was briskly interrupted by her soon to be ex-husband, who felt the impractical need to explain himself after noticing her curious glances before.

"I know you wanted to ask. I was at the hospital still when you called. They asked me to stay for Hightower's autopsy."

She stopped and turned with a look of surprise, though in reality she was unsure whether to believe him and simply wanted to study his face for a cue of dishonesty.

"That's weird. Why would they need a psychiatrist for an autopsy?"

He smirked as if he could read her true intentions.

"He was a former patient of mine, and I wanted to know the details about his death. Anyway, it's a good thing I was. The coroner team concluded it was just the fatal technicalities of a late-diagnosed immunosuppressed disease, left dormant to any common infection which caused his asphyxia. I was glancing at his blood work and noticed the glycated hemoglobin levels were abnormally off the charts. I did some testing and presented the results. He was poisoned."

Adams' eyebrow raised, herself feeling skeptical at such a conclusion.

"Poisoned? By what?"

Stapleton shook his head, as if he were trying to act humble about the whole ordeal. After knowing him as long as she did, Adams knew it as a telltale sign of his pride trying to surface.

"I'm not really sure, but judging by the ridged contortions of his facial muscles, I think we're dealing with something that has never been seen in the States."

Adams bit her bottom lip for a moment, processing the information. There was a moment where she considered if House could actually be held responsible for poisoning her patient. She dismissed the idea quickly and hid it in the back of her mind, continuing their walk to the parking lot. She veered right and headed for some bushes behind overlapping trees.

"Where are you going? I'm parked over here."

"I have to pee. Get the car started, I'll be there in a minute."

* * *

House stared at the ceiling, suddenly casting his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the annoyingly bright sunlight coming up outside his small Plexiglas window. The Greystone Park Psychiatric staff hurried him into his room after he admitted himself last night, thus requiring him to wait until after sunrise to locate Thirteen.

He couldn't sleep. Not only was it the puzzle, still alive and feral in his mind, clawing recklessly in an attempt to be solved; but the pain. It was getting worse. The horrible thing about Oxy is the perversion it brings to your chemically stimulated receptors, and after the high is gone, if your receptors have acquired tolerance or have been deprived for a long enough time, comes withdrawal. Protein is then released in futile attempts to bring your dopamine levels back to natural stabilization. In essence, it makes the whole experience much, much worse.

House gripped his leg in agony, grunting desperately as he smacked the back of his head against the white stone wall. The lacerations on his arm were nothing compared to the dull, ever present ache that made home in his thigh. It was his own worst enemy, his nemesis even – the one significant weakness that could affect his judgment, perception, and even intellectual ability. He had to alleviate the pain, if for nothing more than to finish out the problem.

The door to his room unlocked, rusty bolts in the mechanism creating a loud noise that echoed throughout the hallway. A young Caucasian man with glasses slipped half his body in and greeted House.

"Rise and shine, Gregory House! My name is Brian, and you can ask me any questions you may have during your stay here. You're a level-one patient so feel free to move about the living quarters as you please. Also, see Miss Brown in the front for your morning medication."

House sat up and glared at him through tired, bloodshot eyes.

"You do realize this isn't an airplane."

Brian shrugged his shoulders, the same jolly and full of energy expression plastered like glue on his face. He must have taken it as an invite for conversation, because he moved from the doorway and into the room without hesitation.

"There is no reason not to treat our patients here as guests, Mr. House."

"Except that their insane. You aren't dealing with a bunch of Martha Stewarts living in glorified cells. You're dealing with crazy people, who don't give a rat's ass about your courtesy."

_'Finally'_, House thought, as Brian's smile explicitly dissolved and left him standing there confused on how to respond. House laid back down and nodded towards the door, gesturing for him to leave.

"I want my wake-up call at nine o'clock tomorrow, bring the paper with you. And something sharp, like a knife."

Brian furrowed his eyebrows. There was no doubt that he was offended, but he felt pity for the grumpy patient. He eyed the bandage on House's arm.

"I'm sorry, but as I'm sure you well know, sharp objects are not permitted into this hospital. Suicide is never the answer, Greg. It is a symptom to an even bigger-"

House objected, comically acting as if he denied cutting himself.

"Suicide!? Pfft. Why would you… Oh, you mean this. No, I shave my arms sometimes and had a little accident. No no, you see, I wanted a sharp object so I could deflate your obnoxiously tenderhearted self-sacrificing ego tomorrow. It's a lot easier without this hassle of using words."

He paused for a moment, as if considering what he just said.

"I'm allowed to joke about stabbing you because I'm clinically insane, right?"

Brian took a deep breath and made for the door. He turned to say a few final words.

"I hope you find the help you're seeking here. You definitely need it."

"Help is for sissies. I'm here for the crazy bitches. You know what they say: the nuttier they are, the better the sex."

He shook his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. House, while still gripping his leg, picked himself up off the mattress and grabbed the medical cane that was given to him last night. He peered out the small window beside him, which was about the same size as one of his medical textbooks. For an instant he felt envy, jealous of the happy staff member Brian who probably went to work every day with big smiles and a kiss from his wife. Something about the beauty of that morning's sunrise brought a glimpse of what-could-have-been to his mind. A fantasized life with friends and family, of happiness and real human connection. Maybe he would have spent the day preparing a New Jersey afternoon grill-out like the ones on Sopranos, besides being voluntarily detained at a mental hospital.

House laughed at himself. The thought was ludicrous. Life was here and now, and he was happy with the decisions he made over the years; or at least pretended to be happy. There was no such thing as God or a pure, honest marriage. He had done the best with what was given to him, and having midlife regrets seemed pathetic anyway. He watched his father live and die a selfish bastard, even after raising a family and being married to a part time loyal wife. His old man's accomplishments, although of some national importance, seemed trivial next to the medical mysteries and anomalies House solved throughout his lifetime. Still, he didn't blame his father for his failure as a family man. House, although not legitimately and biologically related to him, knew he wouldn't be much better at it.

He left the room and made way down the long corridor towards the front desk. The hospital was familiar ground to him with its vista of whitewashed walls and dun-colored doors, the panicky and apoplectic residents going to and fro within. The staff members, comfortably clad in their all white scrubs, stood like mythical guardians at every poached corner, ready to wield their mighty Lorazepam-filled syringes on any person of aggressive or over-zealous behavior.

He approached the counter and began hitting the small silver bell repeatedly, refusing to stop until a large black nurse came over and removed it from his reach.

"Can't get mad at me. I'm a crazy person."

House tilted his head and crossed his eyes during the last part of his excuse. It was met without appreciation by the nurse. She grabbed her chart while eyeing him down with a look of petulance and spoke with a southern vernacular.

"Name?"

"They called me Kunta Kinte back on the farm, but I changed my name to Gregory House when I escaped."

"Are you makin' a joke out of slavery, Mr. House?"

"Nope. Just making a joke out of the T.V. miniseries _Roots_, massa nurse."

Her facial tone took one of restrained anger as she grabbed two small cups with a pill in each and placed them in front of House.

"Seroquel and Subutex. Bottom's up."

House stared down at the pills and then back at her.

"The Seroquel is an anti-psychotic. Seeing as I don't hear voices, I don't need to take it. And I'm in pain, I was prescribed opiates before I came in."

The nurse braced her arms against the counter and leaned against them, getting on a close eye-level with House.

"Everyone up in here takes Seroquel, voices or no voices. And seein' as you ain't got no refill for that Oxycodone prescription, I ain't gon' give it to ya. Subutex is a generic brand of bupremorphine but it'll suit you fine. Now, take your meds."

House scratched his forehead and let out a short laugh. The nurse raised an eyebrow, curious to know what he found so amusing.

"There is a reason women don't lactate Sunny Delight. Babies need milk, kind of like pain patients need OH-PI-ATES."

The southern nurse, by regional accent probably from Georgia, puckered her lips and delivered her final point of argument. She stood straight and circled her neck in a stiff fashion as she spoke, her jet black weaves dancing atop her head.

"Well sir, I guess this whiny infant is gon' have to survive on orange juice today."

House bit his bottom lip and dipped one cup into the other, mixing both pills. He shot them back with proceeded to walk away. The nurse interrupted him.

"Na-uh, come back here. I need to make sure you ain't cheeked a pill."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Afraid so, says here in your chart you used to cheek 'em back at Mayfield."

House sighed and quickly forced the pills from the side of his cheek down his throat. He opened wide and waited as she scanned his inner mouth with a small flashlight and craft stick.

"Alright, you're good."

House nodded and turned around. He then began pulling down his pants, underwear included. The nurse waved her arm and began yelling.

"Hey hey hey! What the hell are you doin'?!"

He turned around inconspicuously and explained himself.

"I figured you'd want to do an anal exam on account of my constipation at Mayfield as well."

Surprisingly, she let herself smirk. He was definitely abrasive and annoying, just like in the notes, but it was a change from the usual mentally ill behaviors she encountered on a daily basis. She put the silver bell back out and began to close the sliding glass door.

"Keep bein' a pain in my ass and I might really give you a pain in yours. Then you will need opiates."

* * *

Dr. Eric Foreman set his coat around the back of his chair as he discussed the day's plans with his secretary. She was a smart girl, if a bit young, and typed rapidly on her tablet as her employer spoke.

"Call Mr. Lewis and tell him our appointment will have to be delayed until tomorrow. Dr. Terzis won't be in town until then and we don't have another doctor that knows that much about brachial plexus."

"I think the patient in question that's suing over the surgical error had Urb's Palsy, not brachial plexus. It definitely wasn't a birth defect."

Foreman smiled. He knew there was a reason he hired her. She wasn't just smart, but effective, and had the brass to correct him when needed.

"You're right. The two are commonly confused, thank you for not making me look like an idiot in front our lawyers."

They exchanged a momentary stare that brought caution to Foreman's mind. An interest in intimacy was obviously there, and although he didn't repudiate the idea, he wasn't ready to welcome it either. Romance had a way of complicating his life, and an office romance was even worse, not to mention the fact he was almost twenty years her senior. He shuffled in his chair and focused back on his paperwork.

"That'll be all, Mellody. Thank you for your help."

She understood his body language immediately and nodded with a concocted smile. As she turned to leave, Dr. Edwards rushed through the door, almost as if he were running a foot race. Both the secretary and Foreman were caught off guard and stared at him singularly.

"Dr. Foreman, sorry to disturb you, I have some vital information that demands your attention."

He was out of breath from either over excitement or exertion, or even both. Foreman took a moment to study his appearance and then gestured for Mellody to leave the room. Edwards took the seat in front of his employer's desk, clutching a file in his hands.

"I just wanted to bring something to your attention, being one of full knowledge that you're a person who protects their hospital integrity from any kind of intrusion or intricacy, whether it be internal or external. I also wanted to clarify, Dr. Foreman, that I would never come against a colleague, or a guest of this hospital, if it were not for Princeton Plainsboro's reputation in the balance, and –"

Foreman was rubbing his forehead with impatience. Normally, he was used to this type of play by Edwards, but without his morning coffee and with so much on his schedule, now was not the time for hollow flattery. He interrupted the speech, which by the sound of it had been well rehearsed in front of a bathroom mirror before coming in.

"Edwards, get to the point."

He set the file on the desk and opened it to reveal the paper inside.

"I saw Dr. Adams give House a bottle of Oxycodone yesterday. It was under a false alias of course, and I had Ernie print out all her prescriptions in the last twenty-four hours. This name, Stanley Middleton, is the fake alias that was created."

Foreman picked up the folder and eyed the name listed on the paper's header. There was something about it that brought a familiarity to his mind. He had heard that name before, but wasn't exactly sure where it was from. He dropped the folder and looked at Edwards with a blunt expression.

"I'm surprised he didn't use Keyser Söze. Is there anything else?"

Edwards shook his head, confounded at Foreman's minimum level of concern.

"House is using Adams to get him pills illegally. There could be serious ramifications from this."

"All of which I'm aware, Dr. Edwards. I worked under House a long time, long enough to expect he'd pull something like this at some point. However, he was just a consultant on the case, and I've already banned him from coming into the hospital. The more interesting question is why are you so determined on seeing him leave?"

Edwards bit his lip, thinking of an excuse. Foreman read his expressions.

"Whatever House did to you, you can forget it. He won't be a bother to you or the Diagnostics team any longer."

He grabbed the file and handed it back. Edwards hesitated before taking it and pressed his point further.

"You are going to file a criminal report, right?"

Foreman felt agitated by his constant bickering. House must have really gotten under his skin. He eyed Edwards for a long moment, a subtlety in his stare that translated his feelings of employer-to-employee reciprocity.

"I will do whatever is in the best interest for the hospital. Now if there is nothing else, I have other responsibilities in need of my attention, which are much more significant than one forged prescription of Oxy."

Edwards nodded and left the room. Foreman took notice of his erratic behavior, which suggested that the issue was far from over. In retrospect, he had predicted House to start forging prescriptions sometime during his temporary venture at PPTH. What he had not predicted was Adams' involvement, as she was always more confident than himself when dealing with House's manipulative schemes. His pain had to be severe.

Foreman decided to freshen up a bit and get his morning coffee. He left his office and walked through the secretary's without giving any chance of another awkward smile or conversation. As his hand met the outer office door handle, he froze.

The name, Stanley Middleton, flashed like a strobe light in his mind as he suddenly recalled its origin.

He was a patient under House's original diagnostic team - himself, Chase and Cameron – from decades ago. Stanley had spent the majority of his life in an asylum as a psychiatric patient and ended up slitting his wrists while under their care, thinking it guaranteed an immediate return. He was a mental case for sure, but he wasn't suicidal. He just missed the only home he knew.

Foreman spun around and hurried back to his office, once again ignoring the secretary as she glanced at him with curiosity. He accessed the patient records on his laptop and searched for the name.

He clicked the link entitled 'STANLEY RUPERT MIDDLETON – 2005 – BRAIN TUMOR' and scrolled down to the highlighted case notes. To his surprise, they had been edited with a recorded date of yesterday.

* PATIENT NOTES *

- PATIENT DISPLAYED STUBBORN AND ANTISOCIAL BEHAVIORS, BUT ALAS, MOST GENIUSES SHARE THE SAME QUALITY.

- PATIENT CUT HIS WRIST, BUT BY THE NEARBY SUPPORT OF A CERTAIN FEMALE HEAD OF DIAGNOSTICS (A CHANCE OF BEING FORMER AFTER EDWARDS' PARLAY) WAS STITCHED UP AND DRIVEN TO GREYSTONE PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, IRONICALLY THE SAME LOCATION WHERE A CERTAIN WOMAN SUFFERING FROM HUNTINGTON'S WAS BEING HOSPITALIZED.

- THE BLACK MAN OF WORLD DOMINATION WHO OWNS MORE HUGO BOSS SUITS THAN A CELEBRITY (I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING, BUT HE ISN'T A CRIME LORD) PAYS A VISIT TO APOLOGIZE FOR BREAKING PATIENT'S NOSE, ALSO BRINGING WITH HIM 500$ AND A MIXED VIAL OF HYDROXINATED FENADOXYLINE AND PHENOBARBITAL. AND A BOTTLE OF OXY. :)

- BY SOME UNKNOWN CAUSE, HUNTINGTON'S WOMAN'S ORGANS BEGIN TO SHUT DOWN AND IS TRANSFERRED TO NEARBY DIAGNOSTICS SPECIALIST.

- ZOMBIE INVASION KILLS EVERYONE.

- EXCEPT THE PATIENT, WHO LIVES HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

- THE END.

Foreman couldn't help but smile. House had only been back a few days and was already leaving letters for the future. He clicked the edit registry button and deleted the notes.

* * *

It was a quiet drive back to Adams' house. There was thick fog of resentment between them, and Stapleton's playlist of bluesy rock music wasn't helping the situation. He glanced over, noticing Adams with her elbow propped up against the car door and her hand fixed against her forehead in serious thought. He turned down the music.

"So… how are things?"

Adams lifted herself up. She knew where he was going with this, and she wasn't exactly in the mood. It was certainly a subject that needed closure, but after the long night with House and her fellow inmates all she could think about was collapsing in her bed.

"Seriously. Not right now."

He scoffed as if her response was something ridiculous.

"Seriously. I just bailed you out of jail for ten thousand dollars. You can at least have a conversation with me."

Adams looked him over and half smiled. His baby blue eyes, his calming voice, and the way he made light of any event with his southern charm made her miss the happier times. Still, they were getting a divorce for a reason. In her mind, once a man or woman decided to jeopardize their relationship by having affair, they were showing their true colors. No one can change. Maybe she got that from working with House.

"How are things, let's see. Job's great, I have two subordinates that don't seem to respect or give a damn about my opinions and my last patient had to be diagnosed by a consultant who hasn't practiced medicine for over ten years. My mother still hates me, dad's still dead, and my bladder still hurts from holding my piss when I was locked up with She-Hulk and her detoxing sisters from the local brothel. Life is pretty dandy right now. How about you?"

He just smiled. She looked away, tired and irritated.

"C'mon Jess, it can't be so bad. You used to welcome adventure, you craved that kind of thrill. Maybe not staying in the slammer so much, but you didn't go sky diving four times in a row because you were bored. Hell, you were less timid than I was when we were thousands of feet in the air…"

"Are you bringing up our honeymoon for a reason?"

Stapleton and Adams exchanged looks of seriousness. She was studying him again. He shook his head in disappointment.

"I have to have an ulterior motive to everything? We lived together for more than a year, Jess. Lighten up. Just because we're getting a divorce doesn't mean you have to be pissy. Even if you did have a bad night."

She felt her teeth grind and her hands clench into fists.

_'Did he seriously just call me pissy?'_

She sat upright and leaned over so he would get the full effect of her emotional reaction.

"I'm not 'pissy' because I spent the night in jail, you son of a bitch. I'm pissy because you threw out our marriage for a whore, and now, as you'd say in your hick town dialect, you want to 'shoot the bull' and chit chat about what's going on in our lives as if nothing happened."

He said nothing in return. They were a few blocks away from her apartment now. The bickering would be over soon enough, and he felt it easy to resist the temptation of escalating it.

But Adams was still waiting for a response. She refused to back down or let it go, grilling him with a cold demeanor until he said something.

"I… It was a mistake. I slipped up. I know you've been questioning it over and over, but that was the only time. You were fighting to keep your job, it was right after your last team decided to quit and I… I was just weak. I loved you when I married you, I had no intention of-"

"Don't say that."

Their voices were lower now. Both of them stared out the front window of the vehicle as it came to a stop in front of the apartment. Stapleton turned the car off.

"I loved you too. But you knew what you were doing, what was going on. I guess the risks were worth the price."

He rolled his eyes as he leaned back, propping his foot up beside the steering wheel.

"Y'know, you talk like you hate me, but when it comes down to you being in jail and getting one phone call, I'm your number one guy. That's got to mean something. We're still friends, Jess. Even if you hate to admit it."

She laughed, quite loudly, looking back at him as if he had said something hilarious.

"I'm not your friend, David. I'm your wife, soon to be ex. And stop calling me Jess."

Adams opened the door and began stepping out. She felt him grab her arm.

"Jessica, wait."

She turned and waited, looking him in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head, but looked as if she understood. He released her arm and she got out of the car, turning once more and bending down to meet his eyes.

"No, you're not."

She walked quickly to the front steps of her apartment building, sighing deeply in frustration as she heard him getting out the car behind her. As she went up the stairs and approached the door he came up behind her.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that? All during our relationship you talked about how House changed you, how you saw the world in a cynical light that sometimes depressed you. You're pitiful. I make one mistake and you throw in the towel, even after I did everything I could to make it work, and on top of all that you still blame me for trying."

The conversation had definitely escalated into an argument. Locals who were walking by momentarily stopped to listen.

"I blame you for _not_ trying! I blame you for making a promise to me that you failed to keep!"

"Then blame me! Get it out of your system! Every discourse or conflict I've seen you in, you always deal with it head on! Stop expecting me to read your mind and feelings all the time!"

"You want me to get it out of my system? Is that really what you want!?"

The two shared a strange, high tension stare. Adams grabbed him by his jacket collar and pulled him in. Stapleton wrapped his arms around her in a full embrace and locked their lips, passionately kissing as he slammed her against the front door of the apartment.

"Excuse me… Excuse me!"

They were immediately interrupted by an older woman trying desperately to open the door. Adams and Stapleton moved to the side and watched the lady cast an annoyed look at them, walking down the steps and onto the sidewalk.

They looked at each other and burst into laughter. Stapleton continued to hold her close.

Inside, she still felt an overwhelming bitterness for him, but there was still the lingering aftermath of sexual desire in their relationship. Above all their martial issues, their love life had always been great, and without a proper lay in the last couple of months she found it difficult to ignore the physical temptations from the moment of getting into his vehicle. She glanced up at him, feeling an urgency to get inside before her natural and embittered judgment kicked back in and decided against the idea.

"C'mon, we can keep going in the elevator."

* * *

House felt his middle finger brush along his tonsils and jammed it in deeper. The next second he was clutching the toilet seat tightly, vomiting the medication into the water. He took a deep breath as he flushed it down and grabbed his cane which hung over the stall door. He walked to the faucet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, grasping the handle to turn on the water before stopping abruptly.

There was a voice coming from the hallway outside, a low, fragile singing voice that was barely audible, but very distinctive.

House raced outside the restroom and into the hall, glancing in both directions in attempt to pinpoint the location. He tracked it to a room with a small square window and peered inside.

The thin, almost sickened look of her made his stomach crawl. She was staring above at the ceiling, and her eyes, which were still beautiful, had a faded color to them that were almost lifeless. Her hair was in knots, tangled and unkempt for days. Her limbs twitched with severity, her entire body doing the motions that were once mistaken for the devil's dance, or chorea as the ancients put it; the primary basis for the Huntington's Chorea original name.

It was a sad, pitiful sight to see. And yet she was singing, or more like humming - a tune that was unknown to him, unlike the Dino song from his near death dream sequence. House had expected to find her in this state of condition, but he didn't foresee the feeling of immense sympathy rising inside him presently; it was definitely a rare occurrence in his old age. He wondered at her broken form, how different she was from the strong and stubborn, yet risk-taking female diagnostician that had worked with him only ten years ago. He always had a theory for her drive and perseverance when it came to cases back then - saving someone else distracted her from the disease that was always in the back of her mind, and a boss performing what seemed like diagnostic miracles every week brought a spark of hope to her mysterious life.

He grabbed the door knob and tried to turn, noticing at once that it was locked.

He cursed under his breath and began knocking on the window with his cane while shouting her name, trying to get her attention.

"Thirteen! Thirteen!"

A large man, obviously a staff member by his attire, approached House and moved between him and the door.

"Sir, you're not allowed to communicate with patients in this hall. Please go back to the living quarters."

It was futile to argue, and at the current moment he had nothing to bribe or con with to get past the guard on duty. He turned to retreat in silence towards the living quarters, knowing another plan had to be cultivated.

As he moved a few feet away, the guard shouted out to him.

"Sir! Hey, sir!"

House turned with cane in hand.

"What?"

"Uh, you have toilet paper on your shoe, sir."

House stared down at the hanging paper which clung to his sneaker.

He smiled as an idea came to his mind.


End file.
